


Anabasis

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Series: In Homage to Theoxenia [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel: The Sequel, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pillow Princess Emet-Selch, Top G'raha - true nunh energy is not even noticing you're a nunh, Unrequited Love - WOL/Graha Tia, hydaelyn would like to remind everyone that she is on the good side, scions unsure if irony regarding primal hunting and the mothercrystal is actually funny, slowww buuurn resolving in a lil bit D/s and big bit Figuring It Out As We Go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 120,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25986778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: When everything about the world was five degrees to the left ofexpected,they do their best to relearn their roles.At least as long as there was a primal, there was always something to do.
Relationships: Background Hien Rijin/Warrior of Light, Cid nan Garlond/Nero tol Scaeva, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Urianger Augurelt/Thancred Waters
Series: In Homage to Theoxenia [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859977
Comments: 65
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, Katabasis readers!! Please remember that this fic was written near-exclusively pre-5.3 patch ("Reflections in Crystal"). Basically, just pretend we learned nothing after the Hades trial. Which, if you've read this far, you've probably done that... RIP Fandaniel.
> 
> That aside, warnings will be added to the tags as they appear and in beginning chapter notes. Some chapters are explicit and will be marked such. Thanks again and forever to [Jackaloping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackaloping) for betaing!
> 
> Whereas Katabasis was all about the painful part of growth and redemption, this is the slow, meandering road to healing. Enjoy!!

Loanna was not paid enough to deal with the wards of House Fortemps.

She was the nice and reasonable sort, she thought. She arrived at her post by the Steps of Faith on time more often than not. To best diversify her compatriot’s sentry experience, she made sure to complain in the mornings about the snow’s biting chill and in the afternoons about their new cook’s horrid stew. She capped off every evening with a cheery reminder that, _Well, it could be worse. We could be at Falcon’s Nest._

Not much happened on the Camp Dragonhead side of the bridge. The Eorzeans had long learned to respect Ishgard’s self-sufficient and closed-border status. Only the most foolish dared to try her gates, and of those, few were adequately armed to face land- or sky-bound sentry. 

Cahsi Theia, Warrior of Light and ward of House Fortemps, was definitely one of the more foolish Eorzeans. Unfortunately, she was both well-armed, and _technically_ allowed entry. In Loanna’s view, she should have been barred after Ul’dah cleared her name, and she no longer needed refuge. While she had certainly helped them in the past with the former Archbishop’s unsightly rebellion, she had been fairly compensated in room, board, and sanctuary within their fine city. Debt thus paid, to continue to allow her in was an offense to their closed-border policy.

As for the rumors regarding her connection with the great Father of Dragons, Loanna didn’t buy it. Unfortunately, everyone stationed in Ishgard proper did, and anyway, though she had fine ideas about what should be done, Loanna wasn’t a shot-caller sort. 

Instead, she was a sentry. She would do her job.

“While you are more than welcome, Miss Theia, your comrades must remain at the gates,” Loanna repeated for the umpteenth time. 

Just as with the last dozen, Theia closed her ears to Loanna’s words. “What for?! Is Ishgard not at peace? -- What if I promise they’ll stay with me at all times?”

That was altogether a peculiar statement, but Theia was known for those.

“As I said before,” Loanna said, trying not to sound _too_ exasperated, “ _you_ are welcome. They must remain here.”

Fortunately, one of her three companions gained an iota of common sense. 

“Cahsi…” The small red-haired miqo’te to her left begged off, his gloved hands shoved deep in his robe’s thick, furred sleeves. His wooly hat sat low on his head, his ears similarly covered. By his strikingly red Seeker’s eyes, he was even less suited for the cold than Loanna. “It’s fine. We should go.”

“It’s not fine,” she shot back, hand on her hip and tail lashing behind her, “I don’t understand-- has the Lord Commander not relaxed the borders?”

“I am sorry, Miss,” Loanna replied honestly, if also with a fair bit of annoyance because this was getting out of hand, it really was, “but I’m unsure where you received such erroneous information. Ishgard’s borders remain as they have ever been.”

That was: closed. 

The very idea of the Lord Commander doing anything less was offensive on multiple levels. Long had Ishgard remained in relative peace for the five centuries since their hard-won accord with the dragons that had halted the Great War. The result included, among other equitable covenants, forfeiting foreign allegiances and consequently adhering to strict isolation from the rest of mortal Eorzea. Loanna thought Theia understood better than other outsiders their situation, but apparently, the intervening months since her departure to Doma had clouded her memory. Because she was only an Eorzean and generally doomed to not understand, Loanna wisely kept her opinion to herself.

Apparently fed up with the circular talk in a way the Warrior of Light wasn’t, her taller companion, a Garlean by the third eye gleaming under his hood, turned and left. Loanna wondered vaguely at what a lone Garlean was doing so far south, but Theia’s odd choice in company was another well-established fact. 

After a hesitant pause, the miqo’te ducked his head to her in a half-bow, and bid her farewell before scampering after the Garlean. They headed in the direction of Camp Dragonhead, which was much more suited to keeping them.

Staring after them in apparent affront at their abandonment, Theia lingered a moment longer. Finally she heaved a great sigh, scratched at the back of her head, muttered to Loanna, “Well, thanks anyway,” and took off after the other two. 

Loanna stared after her, her irritation shifting into baffled bemusement.

What a strange one, the Warrior of Light. Being the reasonable sort, Loanna gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Or maybe she’d fallen out of the bed-- a very high bed-- and hit her head. 

Behind her, the horn announcing their supplier’s approach sounded. Loanna shook her head to clear it of thoughts related to Cahsi Theia, and turned to welcome Birger and his rider, Chaunollet. She quite liked them, though she thought Chaunollet’s attitude was occasionally poor. In any case, they always brought a week’s worth of meats and popotos on time. It wasn’t their fault the new cook turned their supplies into nasty gelatin-soup. 

As she raised a hand to hale them in, she saw in the corner of her eye how Theia had stopped and stared at Birger and Chaunollet’s arrival. The Warrior’s gawking mouth and eyes were wide enough to be seen even from the distance she’d managed from the gates.

Loanna couldn’t fathom what she saw that set her off _now_ , but decided it was none of her business as long as she continued on her way. 

“Is that Miss Theia?” Chaunollet asked as he swung a heavy, produce-filled bag down to her. “What brought her to our gates?”

“She wished entry for two of her companions, if you’ll believe it.”

“-- I won’t,” Chaunollet chuckled, thinking her words in jest. When she didn’t respond in kind, he blinked owlishly at her. “By the Fury, you’re serious. I’d thought her more knowledgeable than that.”

“As did I,” Loanna confided, honestly. “She took ‘no’ for an answer eventually, at least. If I may say, her companions were more respectful. One looked as uncomfortable as I at her insistence of entry.”

Chaunollet shook his head. Birger, typically quiet even for a wyvern, shook out his wings in an unconscious mirror of disappointment. Loanna had to leap back to avoid being hit in the face.

When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Theia still staring in blatant shock. At _Birger_ , perhaps...? Really, it made no sense! It was like she’d completely forgotten her stay at Ishgard.

**. . .**

The inconsistencies neither began nor ended with Ishgard.

Three months since their return to the time they thought theirs, and the differences had yet to cease.

The first had been upon arrival at Revenant’s Toll. As predicted, the Scions were there, though abysmally weak from the weeks or months they’d spent bedridden. On arrival and entry by Krile after proving they knew more than the average stranger about the Scions of the Seventh Dawn (Emet-Selch kept largely quiet, thankfully, and did not question why he was included in being invited inside), Ryne had spotted a twin in blue hunched at a table and ran over with a happy, “Alphinaud! I’m glad to see you’re well,” only to stop dead once the twin turned to face her. 

With a long-suffering look, though it could not have been more than a half-day since they collectively awoke, Ryne was informed, “I’m Alisaie, actually, but I appreciate the sentiment. It’s good to see you as well, Ryne.”

Alphinaud had appeared then, dressed in red and holding two steaming mugs of tea. The smile he gave Ryne was genuine, but shadowed swiftly with understandable (and distinctly youthful) awkwardness.

Apparently they’d meant to change outfits sooner, as Alisaie dreaded blue and Alphinaud felt uncomfortable in red, but the seamstress, Tataru, had fitted their outfits too well in places that made swapping somewhat difficult. According to Alphinaud, Tataru would correct the differences soon, after finishing the full debriefing with the other Scions about the First, Amaurot, and all that occurred in between.

That had been the first tip-off things were not exactly as they’d been left. 

The problem was that by and large, the similarities outweighed the differences, to include that Rammbroes had set up his research station at the Crystal Tower’s base, and lingered there yet-- which G’raha immediately took advantage of by visiting, even though it resulted in quite the tongue-lashing over his reckless decision to seal himself away. If tears entered the old man’s eyes by the end, and his welcome-home hug powerful enough to crack a rib if not crystal, neither of them admitted such aloud.

Really, the differences were mostly of the random, harmless nature such as an Alphinaud that preferred red and an Alisaie that preferred blue. By Gridania grew numerous tall, red-barked trees none of them had seen before. The Calamities occurred, but at slightly different dates. The Allagan Empire had risen in power after the acquisition of gravity-defying technology which had, according to legend and scholarly account both, fallen from the sky. Their greed as they gained the upper hand - and high ground - on every other race had led them to their own destruction, in a rise-and-fall not overly distinct from the one orchestrated by the Ascians.

The Ascians, which if Emet-Selch was to be believed (and in this, he was), did not exist. The universe as it stood knew not of Zodiark, though it was soaked in Hydaelyn’s blessing ( _positively reeking of it_ , groused Emet-Selch, as one could apparently take the Ascian from Zodiark but not Zodiark from the Ascian). As for why one existed without the other, neither Emet-selch nor any tome within The Rising Stones’ immediate reach could explain. Urianger and Ryne set out to uncover the reason, but by their report, it was slow going. Hydaelyn continued to be a benign if not kindly presence as far as they could tell, and thus that particular investigation’s priority fell. 

(In deciding so, Emet-Selch was not asked his opinion on the matter.)

In a way, the small changes were far worse than the big ones. Of note was the revelation that Ishgard was and had been an isolated nation of dragonriders; and, relatedly, that Garlemald was a strictly neutral Commonwealth which specialized in the international airship and magitek markets. Their products were not often military in nature, though it was a widely known secret that they had supplied Ala Mhigo the equipment necessary for a stalemate with Ul’dah in the years since the Calamity, and another war to near-extinction against the Amalj’aa and Qalyana.

Of _particular_ note was that the Shards not only existed, but were common knowledge. 

According to Krile, people had traveled between the Shards throughout the Source’s history. The journey was always risky and fraught with dangers, the least of which being that a traveler would intend to reach the Third and instead end up a decade ahead of schedule in the Fifth. Thus, only the strongest and cleverest made such trips, and even then, only under the strictest of circumstances and often to the great sorrow of their loved ones.

A few beings were capable of ferrying messages between the worlds at little risk and cost, but those that could were often finicky creatures.

For instance: the First’s fae folk.

On the first night after returning to the Source, G’raha received a visitor in his dreams. Feo Ul appeared, so incensed at his and the Scions’ sudden departure that he nearly feared the imposition of a waking nightmare.

Fortunately, they calmed before resorting to such petty measures. Once calmed, they confessed Cahsi Theia and an Ardbert -- and Lyna, who they mentioned of their own accord but which G’raha silently appreciated -- were safe and sound in body, heart and soul, though they (but not Lyna, as if G’raha needed to be told of the distinction) were as confused as the Scions over their surroundings’ miniscule changes.

The Flood had happened, G’raha learned, though its origins were unknown. Minfilia had stopped it as she had the first time, and those that survived its tragedy struggled the same to rebuild in its wake. He had eventually appeared with his Crystal Tower, and the Warrior of Light and the Scions had eventually been summoned. The Lightwardens had been disposed of, night returned at last, and _then_ \-- they’d disappeared without warning! Without even a good-bye! How rude could they be?! And now Feo Ul’s little sapling wished to leave, too, and take her new, delightful friend with her! _Their relocation had better not be permanent!_

Whatever magics Fandaniel had worked had sent Cahsi (and, seemingly by consequence, Ardbert) to the First with their ability to move between Shard and Source intact, at least. In no time at all, the two Warriors returned to Revenant’s Toll, were welcomed heartily by all, and thereafter added substantially to Krile’s growing stack of notes regarding Amaurot. The Lalafell said the descriptions reminded her of an old myth about other-worldly beings, but vague as that myth had been, she’d need to look into it before she felt confident confirming anything. 

It was, all in all, a whirlwind of a waking. G’raha slept like a rock the second night, tucked into a quiet back room in The Rising Stones with a surprisingly comfortable cot and very plush blanket. When he woke, he barely felt the Tower’s draining draw at all. That, perhaps, made the cot even better than it otherwise would have been.

Youth was a blessing wasted on the young, he thought— and then inwardly cringed, and thereafter forced himself to get up for breakfast before he thought himself right back into old age.

Emet-Selch did not sleep, but rather studied various history books through the night in The Rising Stone’s main room. Urianger joined him at some point in the early hours, and then G’raha and Alphinaud once the morning had grown into a reasonable time. While they explained as much as they could to the others about the Ascians as they knew them, they downplayed Emet-Selch’s role therein in a token effort to keep the newfound peace while still alerting their colleagues to his potential danger. As a result, everyone save Ryne and G’raha kept him in the corner of their eye. They had forged something of a bond throughout their time in Amaurot, yes, but they were no longer in Amaurot. In any case, while they meant to keep their promise to Hythlodaeus in not turning him out in the cold at the slightest misstep or earliest opportunity, they weren’t going to be dumb about it. On a similar note, tomes sensitive to the Scions’ recruitment and management strategies were still kept safely locked away (though they were well aware the security was illusory, because if he put his mind to it, they hadn’t the means to stop him).

To their vague disappointment, he did nothing worth scrutiny. He was in fact extraordinarily well-behaved, if prone to mild complaints about their lackluster lodgings and limited meal options. 

Without the Empire clamoring at their borders and the Calamity’s causes -- Flood included -- shrouded in mystery, the Scions wondered at what was to be done. That the Calamities occurred at all was extremely concerning, but with the First’s thwarted, they thought they had some time before the next. Ideally they would be able to travel to other Shards and check for themselves without overly burdening the Tower’s energies -- Emet-Selch could do it alone, but he well understood his word was not sufficient assurance -- but that would take time to prepare. 

Although the merging of body and soul logically should have provided them knowledge of their experiences on this “new” Source, none of them had the faintest idea of what changes faced them. 

So as it was, the best they could do was re-learn their world.

It took longer than they expected, and revealed more than they could have anticipated.

. . .̸̱͔̱̟̙̒̐̕͘ r̶̬͉̗̉͛͋͜ ̸̖̱̘͈̈ͅe̴̙̞͉̅̒͝ ̸̱̖̲͗̄͌̕ͅ.̵̡͖̯̳͝ ̶̟͙͔̣̾̓̐̅͝ **.̴̢̗̰̻̜̎̓ ̸̨͑̍̀̃.̴̣̞͚̼̤̈́͋͒ ̸̬̝̝̟̻̈́͆ỳ̴̳͙̲͍̔̅̑͘ ̸͎̔o̸̼̫̪̘̎̌̒́ ̸̭̹̉̓͆͛̅.̸͚̟̠̭̖̅̂̋** ̶͖͆͌̉͊.̸̢̌̉̓ ̵̤̖͓͗ . .̸̱͔̱̟̙̒̐̕͘ . .̸̟̽̂̊̇ ̸̫̀̚͘̚͝h̶̛̦̬͔͜ ̵̨̯̱̯͊̑̑̑͝ **ę̷̘̠̹̜̔̑̅ ̶̜̥̏̿͌͊̚r̴̰͓̉͝ ̸̛̩͓̫̋̉̈e̴̦̭̥̊̅ ̸̻̓̄͋**?̴̩͉̺̹̫̑ . .̸̱͔̒̐̕͘ . 

Ale sloshed over the side of two mugs dropped heavily upon the luckily sturdy tavern table. Cahsi hastily reached to keep the one set before her from tipping over, while G’raha scrambled to keep his from knocking into hers. Ardbert had insisted on ordering the drinks (and food, and their rooms, and feed for their chocobos, and anything and everything else that necessitated interaction with random strangers). His unbridled enthusiasm had made it difficult to tell him no, though he occasionally used a term fit for the First or, as in the case of the ale, forgot how gravity worked.

Taking his seat across from her, own mug in hand, Ardbert winced apologetically. “Sorry. Hadn’t thought the height difference would do that much.”

“No trouble,” Cahsi assured. The huge gulp of ale she took definitely helped her ease in sentiment.

Before each of them was warm popoto stew with a few cuts of brisket, their mugs -- ale for the adventurers and what _had_ been water for Emet-Selch, as he’d scrunched his nose at _ale_ , except after being served and taking his first sip, its contents smelt too much like alcohol and looked far too dark red to still be water -- and a side of a mostly-hardened bread roll. For Camp Dragonhead, it amounted to a feast. The people hadn’t forgotten the Warrior of Light’s help in time past, even though it had been against religious zealots rather than heretics and still resulted ultimately in the loss of their Lord.

“Now that we’re comfortably set,” Ardbert said after the disaster of mugs tipping over had been averted, “how’d it go?”

Cahsi groaned, and indulged herself in attempting to drown in her ale. 

G’raha politely kept his eyes focused on his stew. Emet-Selch had his on G’raha’s bread roll.

“That bad, huh?”

“I’d thought Nanamo had exaggerated their closed state of affairs…” They’d -- the Scions as a whole, not simply their group of four -- been making their rounds to the Scions’ allies, to ensure nothing _too_ material in expectations had varied. Nanamo had put her hand to her mouth and _laughed_ at her when she’d said that she looked forward to introducing G’raha to the Scholasticate while at their next stop, Ishgard. She’d thought Cahsi to be in jest, to Cahsi’s surprise. “Evidently not. Tataru, Alphinaud and I are of course welcome, they said, but no others. I got the distinct feeling neither House Fortemps nor Aymeric would appreciate being put on the spot in having to decide whether to allow others to accompany me into the city.”

“Even though some of us are far less likely to cause trouble than others?” Ardbert grinned. “By others, I mean you, in particular.”

“G’raha’s just one person,” she rebuffed. “One less troublesome person doesn’t make ‘some.’”

G’raha looked torn on whether he should take that as a compliment or not, while Ardbert shook his head with a smile persisting. 

In truth, his smile hadn’t stopped since she’d introduced him _properly_ to the Scions in Revenant’s Toll. Looking at him now, she tried valiantly not to let it infect her. Everything about it inspired her to match it, except it was so constant that it made her face muscles tired. How he kept it going, she couldn’t say. 

“We can wait here while you speak with the Lord Commander,” G’raha said, which was a very stately and diplomatic thing to propose.

She couldn’t agree. Though it rankled slightly, she had to admit, “I’d rather not be the only one with eyes open for differences.”

“If all you require is recognizance, my offer stands,” Emet-Selch said then, breaking his indifferent silence. “We could then happily leave this place and return to Mor Dhona before the sun sets.”

His offer being to teleport himself in and out of Ishgard with no one the wiser; or, _since she insisted on being picky_ , to teleport them all in under the cloak of invisibility.

Just as it had when he’d first offered, it didn’t sit right with her. 

“Surprisingly nice for you as that offer is,” and it was, technically, “I’d still rather not. It feels cheap. You might be used to skulking about in the shadows, but I’m not.” She blew out a breath and pushed a hand back through her hair. “Though I can see why you did. It’s much easier. Bet you’ve never had to wait a half-day in Ul’dah’s sweltering heat to receive travel papers.”

“Not specifically, no.”

“Did you ever take advantage of the adventurers preference in housing?” Ardbert asked, his curiosity idle. “-- That was a thing here too, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, gods, yes, it was a thing. But see, Ardbert, I was willing to wait a half-day, not a _decade_.”

Ardbert looked vaguely confused. “Being the Warrior of Light didn’t get you on the top of a list?”

“What? No. -- Wait! Did it for _you?_ ”

“Sort of. I mean, Renda-Rae knew somebody who knew somebody who was a big fan, so…”

A knowing glint sparkled in Cahsi’s eye. She lost her offense, instead leaning forward on the table on her elbows. “Oh? And what’d you have to do for this big fan?”

Instantly, Ardbert’s ears flushed red. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. She was a very reasonable business woman.” 

“Sure, sure,” she waved a hand before her nose as if clearing the air, “but really, what did you have to do? Wear her store’s sign on your back for a week? Perform for her kid’s tenth name day party? Find a lost sister and convince her to rejoin the family?”

“She only wanted a day’s help with her store, _actually,_ and the amaro-suit wasn’t even that bad to wear--”

“Amaro-suit?! No, tell me you didn’t!”

The embarrassed red crept down his neck and across his face, even as he fought down his smile. “It was just for a day! Branden wanted a place to store his armor collection, okay, you know how paladins are, and anyway, we could all do with a place that wouldn’t charge us a fee for a comfortable bed, so--”

Watching quietly, G’raha polished off his stew. His eyes went back and forth between the Warriors. As he certainly hadn’t previously attuned himself to Camp Dragonhead’s aetheryte and he’d similarly turned down Emet-Selch’s teleportation offer out-of-hand, their journey to Ishgard had been long and slow. To arrive and be rebuffed was surely disappointing. Regardless, he found himself happy to simply be there, able to hear and see the Warriors banter, and take in again the feel of _Eorzea._ Though this Eorzea differed from his memory and his stockpile of related records in the Tower, it was still distinctly his old home. It was good to be back, and better still to be sitting across from his Warrior of Light. He appreciated every moment he had, conscious as he was that he hadn’t been meant to experience again even a second of it.

Even the weather outside was novel, though the first biting gust of snow-flecked wind had reminded G’raha that he really didn’t like the cold. At least this time, unlike in the cave, he had gear sufficiently fluffy to combat it. Thus protected, he couldn’t help staring at how the trees bowed under the snow’s weight, or how the ice sprites painted frost upon any structure they passed. The First’s limited geography coupled with endless Light had reduced winter into a passing breeze and lasting snow into an impossibility. In comparison, Coerthas looked like nothing short of a wonderland.

Though he’d been intellectually curious about Ishgard, he didn’t mind missing it. Cahsi was too generous as it was to take him on this journey… 

The stew wasn’t even half-bad. The stew was relatively tasteless, actually, and the amount was meager in comparison to the hunger their long journey had inspired in him, but the company was great. 

Contentment settled, warm and light, in his bones.

As if sensing that his guard had been so lowered, on his last bite of stew, Emet-Selch smirked (the only warning he got), struck out and snagged his bread roll. 

Peace thus interrupted, he sputtered an instant protest, spoon clattering down into his empty bowl as he reached to snag it back. 

Without blinking, Emet-Selch pulled it out of his reach -- not too difficult, what with his ridiculous opo-opo-length arms, the _ass_ \-- then tore it in half and offered one-half back. G’raha snatched it out of his hand with a half-annoyed, mostly-exasperated glare. Emet-Selch merely raised one eyebrow back and dipped his half of the roll into his untouched stew.

“I thought you were finished. You’re really going to eat that without broth?” He was questioned, Emet-Selch’s words high and haughty, as if the entire situation wasn’t entirely juvenile. “You’ll chip a tooth.”

“Not all of us are so delicate,” G’raha returned evenly, to Emet-Selch’s apparent and inexplicable amusement. 

To prove his point and knock the slight smirk off Emet-Selch’s face, he bit into the roll.

And _carefully_ hid his wince, as the stale bread resisted him mightily.

By the measure of how his smirk grew, Emet-Selch seemed to catch it anyway.

“Honestly. _Here._ ” Emet-Selch pushed his stew bowl, torn roll propped on its edge, toward G’raha. “Take it. None of it is to my liking, anyway.”

He spoke with the tone of a King gifting his subjects with a generous bounty, and not as he actually was, which was a thief returning stolen goods! Only because G’raha knew better than to turn down food, no matter how obnoxiously offered or returned, he took the bowl with his glare renewed.

To make his point, he ate the stew without touching the half-submerged roll.

Emet-Selch seemed not to care beyond his acceptance, the bastard. If messing with his meals was going to become a _thing_ , G’raha would need to learn how to remind him about the importance of manners in a way that made the lesson stick. He’d put pepper flakes-- Lyna’s least favorite spice-- on pastries to get her to stop sneaking cookies before dinner time, but Emet-Selch would probably just _stop tasting_ or something else equally ridiculous to thwart that move… Except it wasn’t even about eating the food, was it? He just had to be the center of attention when he decided he wanted to be.

“Yes?” Emet-Selch said. “Is there something you would like to say?”

Confused, G’raha looked up, swallowing his spoonful of stew.

As it turned out, Emet-Selch wasn’t talking to him. He looked at Cahsi instead, a deep frown etched on his face.

She stared a beat longer, then looked away in a highly suspicious jerk of her head. 

“Nothing,” she said, far too quickly, and then cleared her throat. Looking to G’raha, honest concern crossed her face. “Are you still hungry, G’raha?” He tried not to show how hearing his name made his heart leap in his chest. By Emet-Selch’s furrowed brow, he wasn’t entirely successful. Cahsi, at least, didn’t call him on it. “We can get more. Francel said their food storages are doing remarkably well for this time of year. Ardbert would be happy to ask.”

Shrugging lightly at her assertion, Ardbert didn’t bother to deny it.

G’raha’s hands tightened around his bowl. He had to clear his own throat once before he could answer, his composure lost under her worried gaze.

“Thank you, but this will be plenty,” he said. In emphasis, he finally deigned to grab the soaked half-roll and eat it. 

Unfortunately, Emet-Selch was right. It went down much easier after soaking in broth.

He gave Emet-Selch a reluctant nod in acknowledgement as much. 

The concession smoothed the frown from his face, and he nodded back.

“If you’re sure.” Cahsi paused, eyes flicking between the two of them. Fortunately, rather than make a further scene, she shook off her concern and, with a dramatic groan, buried her head in her hands. “And, actually, if you’re _sure_ you wouldn’t mind staying here while I go to Ishgard… I really should check in with Aymeric.”

“We don’t mind,” he reassured her, hoping he wasn’t speaking out of turn on Ardbert’s behalf. Emet-Selch certainly didn’t mind. Twice already, when their travels had proven too tedious for him, he’d disappeared with little warning to who-knew-where. An old part of G’raha insisted he should be concerned about the exact location Emet-Selch retreated to, but the rest of him knew there was nothing to be worried about. Especially not as long as Emet-Selch continued to return to their agreed-upon destination within a reasonable time of their arrival, which he thus far had.

Peeking from between her fingers, she asked, “You mean it?” 

Ardbert gave a good-natured scoff. “Yeah, ‘course we do. I’m sure there’s something around here for us to get into while you’re gone. There always is in places like this.”

She laughed at that, agreeing. Dropping her hands to the table, she pushed herself up and stood. “Right. You’ll have to tell me all about it. I should be back by the noon bell.”

“If you’re not, we’ll assume you’re doing fine and head back to Revenant’s Toll. We’ll meet up there.”

“You’ll assume I’m fine? That’s a lot of trust you’re putting in me,” she teased. “I might find another rebellion to thwart. Which was, apparently, what I did in the first go-around.” Then, a bit more seriously, “Would’ve preferred that to what I remember, if I’m honest. Rebellion sounds more cut-and-dry.”

“You don’t know that,” Ardbert said evenly, ever blunt. 

He and Cahsi certainly shared that trait. Neither of them were sure why they’d returned to their own bodies rather than remaining as one, but neither felt like making that discovery a high priority. They didn’t even dare ask Emet-Selch, lest he give them a wildly cryptic, ominous answer that meant one of them had to die by the other’s hand in order to become one. Sometimes, it was alright not to look a gift chocobo in the beak.

She didn’t shy from the bluntness, at least. “Yeah, guess you’re right. You all behave now, okay?”

“No promises,” Ardbert assured her, grinning wide.

With a small smile of his own, G’raha said, “See you soon.”

Emet-Selch gave her a small nod of acknowledgement. Then, once her back was turned, he called after her, “Do try not to need rescuing,” which she accepted with a dismissive wave of her hand and without looking back.

**. . .**

True to Ardbert’s predictions (however outdated they were), Camp Dragonhead had a citizen in dire need of _immediate_ adventurer’s assistance: her late mother’s ring had been taken in the dead of the night from her drawer, and she feared it gone forever. As a place to start, she thought she’d seen a burglar-type fellow lurking by the merchant carts. They found her because G’raha had idly mentioned wanting to compare star-chart notes with an Astrologian in the Observatorium, and she, a happy eavesdropper, had promised to give them her Astrologian cousin’s name if they could find her missing ring.

There had been a shifty burglar-type by the carts. Unfortunately, she’d been acting shiftily because she had indeed stolen the ring, but worse, she’d lost it in her escape from the home through the nearby chocobo stables. She hadn’t been sure if one of the merchant’s chocobos had picked it up, so she’d taken to lurking around the carts and watching what they might drop. She couldn’t get back into the stables in broad daylight, so she hadn’t much choice in the matter.

She swore up and down she’d had a change of heart and planned to return the blasted thing if she could just find it. That was an obvious lie, but as they weren’t in the business of policing the Camp’s clumsier criminals, they silently agreed to leave her be and instead search the stables themselves. 

And that was how Ardbert and G’raha found themselves raking through hay and scattered chocobo greens, searching through the stable’s dusty floor for a tiny, old ring.

Emet-Selch had deigned to follow them about the Camp with minimal commentary, but he drew his line at helping them sift through dirt and dust. Instead, he leaned on a stable door and watched with the bored curiosity of a lazy cat watching mice at play, his arms folded over the top railing and one foot hooked behind the ankle of the other. In the stable at question, Ardbert quietly swore under his breath when he straightened up from his latest _hey! Is that it?_ dive and came face-to-face with the stable’s unimpressed occupant. 

_Wark!_ the chocobo loudly complained, its wings flapping twice with agitation when Ardbert nearly knocked his head into its beak.

G’raha hastily stepped over and patted its chest to calm it, shushing it under his breath. 

It eyed G’raha shrewdly, perhaps sensing its quarrel was not with him. It then turned its gaze on Ardbert with a quietly accusatory, _Kweh?_

“Uh,” Ardbert glanced to G’raha, then hurriedly acted to mirror G’raha’s calming pats on its feathery chest. “Sorry?” Its glare softened. Ardbert repeated with more conviction, “Yes! Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Once it had been mollified, Ardbert eyed its razor-sharp beak and then muttered to G’raha out of the corner of his mouth, “I’m not alone in thinking these things are twice as intimidating as any amaro, am I?”

“Not at all,” G’raha assured him. “I don’t remember the beak being quite so sharp.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!”

“My, my, you two. How _has_ this ring persisted in eluding your keen observational skills?” Emet-Selch commented dryly, chin in hand. He looked to be fighting the urge to sleep in a battle he was swiftly losing.

“Same as it has evaded yours, I imagine,” G’raha returned with a sniff. “Unless you can see it from your lofty vantage point?”

“I’d have it in the maiden’s hand and ourselves on the road to a place of actual interest if it weren’t for someone being particular about the-- what was it? Ah, yes. The _process._ ”

Ardbert wouldn’t be shamed, especially not by an Ascian used to getting whatever he needed by a snap of his fingers. “The journey’s worth as much as the experience.”

Emet-Selch gave a pointed look-- and wave --around at the stables (which were in dire need of a cleaning). “Ah, yes. And _what_ an incredible journey it has been.”

Ardbert shook his head and quit petting the chocobo. Upon doing so, the beast immediately gave him a questioning chirp. He carefully stepped away from it, then cleared his throat and looked up to Emet-Selch. 

“If you don’t want to help, you don’t have to stay. You’ll know we’re finished when we’ve reached the Observatorium.”

Emet-Selch tilted his head, apparently seriously considering that proposal.

“Wait a moment,” G’raha protested then, his hand stilling on the chocobo’s side, “that isn’t fair. He can’t just duck out of the work and then reap the benefits.”

“I can, and I will.” Mind thus made up, Emet-Selch pushed off the railing he’d been leaning on and gave them a mockingly jaunty, “As entertaining as it has been, my dears, I’ll see you after you’ve found the elusive ring and, hopefully, a bath.” 

By his feet, Ardbert saw purple-black aether curl up.

At the same time, G’raha’s face scrunched in concentration and his right hand jerked up, palm flat.

The aether halted at knee-height. It writhed about Emet-Selch’s legs in confused lashings, and then slowly -- in time with G’raha pushing his hand down, palm still flat -- sunk back into the ground until, with a sound of an eardrum popping at great altitudes, it disappeared.

Emet-Selch stared, wide-eyed and frozen still, at his feet for a good, long moment. The shock on his face was as open as Ardbert had ever seen him be.

Ardbert couldn’t help it: he laughed. 

The look was just too much. The absurdity of its cause coupled with it being _him,_ once-feared Ascian and now possibly one of the most powerful and certainly the oldest beings left in the universe, merely made Ardbert laugh harder.

Sadly, that snapped Emet-Selch out of his trance. He jerked his gaze up to G’raha. Begrudging respect and absolute affront fought in equal parts across his expression. Evidently baffled by his own mixed emotions, his mouth worked open, then closed, then opened again. Finally, he said, filled with affront: “ _What_ was that for?” 

“I hadn’t been sure that would work,” G’raha admitted immediately, one-tenths sheepish and nine-tenths self-satisfied that it had. “Your aether manipulation is always rather overt. It’s really not too difficult to intervene.”

“You haven't always been capable of tracking aether manipulation without preparation and concentration."

G’raha shrugged one shoulder, resuming his petting of their big bad chocobo. “My capabilities grow by the day. At least, so I began to suspect, considering what I noticed when you would yourself through portals to places unknown. It gladdens me to know I was right.”

“And you didn’t see fit to inform someone? Me, in particular?”

“That would be a strange thing to bring up without cause...”

“It really wouldn’t have been.”

“On the rare occasion I strive to mind what constitutes normalcy, even rarer -- dare I say, daunting though a duration it is, _never_ \-- do I believe you to be the appropriate stick by which I would measure.”

“-- Fine, then, let me broach the topic myself: what other skills have you happened to _notice_ yourself developing?”

G'raha graced him with a sly smirk. " _What_ , indeed. In the realm of untapped magicks, the imagination certainly runs wild." He paused. Then peering at Emet-Selch from the corner of one eye, G'raha appraised him (and his fuming state) silently before continuing with, smirk yet in place, a cajoling, “ _If_ you help us find the ring, then I’ll fill you in on what you've missed.”

"As that is such an _unexpected_ and burdensome bargain," Emet-Selch rolled his eyes, "that truly leaves me so little room to consider," and, "whatever shall I choose?" while, somehow, managing to both taunt and glower without actually moving a muscle. Ardbert wondered if he wished he were still enough in the bad guy camp that he could simply force G’raha to tell him what he wanted. That thought, at least, helped Ardbert control his laughter, which had quieted to snickering during the other two’s exchange. He leaned on the stable wall, and didn’t even mind as the neighboring chocobo stuck its head curiously over the railing. When he didn’t flinch away, it laid it upon his shoulder with a quiet coo. Giving it an idle chin-scratch, he found himself far less intimidated than before.

A phrase and comparison not inapplicable to their resident Ascian, actually. 

_That_ thought turned Ardbert's next breath into an amused huff. Wisely, he decided to keep it to himself.

Instead he said, “See, that? Wouldn’t have gotten that exchange, aether trick and all, if we’d just magicked the ring up.”

By how his ears wiggled, G'raha accepted his observation with pride. The chocobo at his shoulder rumbled an agreeing _kweh,_ then stretched its neck further out for better pettings. Ardbert obliged it.

Emet-Selch ignored his comment, which was probably as good as him admitting Ardbert was right. Leaning back on the railing, Emet-Selch gave G’raha a taunting _as if_ grin, his hand raising as if he were about to snap himself out of existence right then and there. But then, to Ardbert’s quiet amazement, the hand settled docile and placid upon his other wrist, and then he leaned forward to look around the stable’s flooring. With his own eyes. No magic. Huh.

New dogs, old tricks, was a phrase that stuck to the tip of Ardbert's tongue.

Thing was, even though it had been happy with G’raha’s pets, the chocobo in the stable gave Emet-Selch the biggest stink-eye Ardbert had ever seen from a domesticated animal. When Emet-Selch leaned farther over the railing to better see the floor, a warning _waaark_ rumbled in its throat. 

G’raha tried to mollify it by scratching at a spot infamous on all riding birds for being itchy -- the wing’s base -- but it refused to be so easily distracted. 

It continued its grumblings and growlings, until even Emet-Selch blinked up at it in vague alarm.

At that, G’raha said, a hint of amusement in his voice despite the pure murder radiating off the animal in Emet-Selch’s direction, “I don’t think it cares for your presence.”

Eyes returning to scanning the floor, Emet-Selch scoffed. “It barely comprehends what lays before its eyes, let alone formulates opinions about specific strangers.”

“Perhaps if you were nicer,” G’raha mused, absently, as if Emet-Selch hadn't said a word, “it would find reason to like you.”

“It considers ‘nice’ being fed and being pet, in that order.”

“Funny how being nice doesn’t often take much, but can nonetheless make one's life infinitely easier.”

“Is that right. Would you like me to scratch you behind your ears, then?” Emet-Selch drawled. “I so do desire to be considered ‘nice’ by baser beasts.”

The chocobo at Ardbert’s shoulder, living in blessed ignorance of the words thrown about its neighbor’s stall, stretched its neck to peck at a particularly lumpy pile of old greens. Finding the greens not to its taste, it soon pulled its head back with a displeased squawk. 

Ardbert gave it a consolatory pat on the side of the neck, marveling quietly at the softness of its feathers over its firm weight. As he did so, his eye caught on a golden glint at the end of its beak. 

“This baser beast interrupted and reversed your spell,” G’raha was saying. “Unless that was because you’ve grown complacent in your advanced age?”

“I hesitate to call teleportation a _spell_ of any noteworthy complexity,” Emet-Selch replied evenly, his eyes again off the floor and focused on his conversational partner, “and as basic aetherial manipulation is a trait mastered by children, it’s hardly impressive.”

“I found the ring.”

“So you admit you’ve been bested by a child’s understa--ah--?” Surprised, G’raha spun on a heel to face Ardbert, his eyes bright with interest under his woolen hat. “You have? Where was it?”

Ardbert pointed at the chocobo’s beak. The chocobo blinked its big eyes at him, and helpfully placed the ring gently into his hand. He quickly opened and flattened it to keep a hold of the object, a not-small part of him surprised at how it didn’t continue falling to the floor. It wasn’t a very remarkable ring -- it was, in fact, quite plain -- but its craftsmanship was solid, its band a true gold, and it had the inner wear and tear of an item well-loved. Instinctively, Ardbert picked off a piece of moldy green from its edge and then gave it a polishing-rub with his gloves. The elf would be happy to see it back in her possession.

Wait, no. Not elf. Elezen. 

Not the first time he’d slipped up, and not the last. 

He gave the helpful chocobo another chin-scratch, and pulled himself back to the present with the solid feel of its head on his shoulder.

“I swear we’d checked there,” G’raha murmured, though with the modestly pleased air of a job well-done. “Thank you, Ardbert.”

His eyes were on Ardbert as he said so. Ardbert found his throat closing up and his tongue sticking to the top of his mouth, though the reason eluded him.

(Not the first time. Definitely not the last.)

“Thank the bird,” he replied at last, prying the words from his mouth after a queer moment wherein he couldn’t find any words at all. “Perhaps we could convince them to give it some extra krakka root?”

“I think we must. It’s only proper,” G’raha said with a stately nod.

“Based on the feed bins on our way in, I would not be surprised if the stablehands are stingy about rations. Let us feed it and be on our way,” was Emet-Selch’s contribution, which would have been ridiculously inadequate if he didn’t accompany it with a wave of his hand and the magical summoning of a krakka root. 

Both chocobos in the vicinity startled at its sudden appearance, but then took interest. 

He rolled his eyes, and summoned another for the one by G’raha. Both levitated before their beaks until they snagged and ate it. Ardbert’s chirped with joy, while G’raha’s at last quit its hostilities toward Emet-Selch.

“So you _can_ learn,” G’raha said after observing the exchange, his lips quirked up at one end as he looked to Emet-Selch.

“I can still give you a scratch behind the ears, too, if you like.” 

G’raha snorted, but his faint smile didn’t fade. “I’ll pass. It seems like a waste of your talents.”

“Ah, yes. My many talents that are better suited for summoning root vegetables since you are relentlessly concerned about _fairness_ ,” said while he stepped back and dragged open the wooden gate to the stall to let them out, “and I find it unlikely these two would find reward in studying star charts, unless they were allowed to eat them,” his usual dismissive tone lined with something lighter.

“Probably, though I can’t imagine them finding copious amounts of ink to their taste,” G’raha readily agreed, and hopped-to with exiting the stall. 

“What picky creatures.”

“Careful,” and here G’raha’s voice warmed entirely with good-natured amusement, his thoughts apparently drifting to a happy memory, “I’ve been informed that a motto of ‘you’d best finish what you’re given before you can have anything else’ is a sign of _truly_ advanced aging.”

“Even the chocobos could tell you that,” with equal, albeit not as warm, amusement. 

Though some of him loathed to leave the friendly bird or its comforting weight, Ardbert dutifully trailed after the two. In his hand, he couldn’t help but roll the ring through his fingers once, twice, thrice, and thereafter gripped it tight, relishing its solidity.

**. . .**

Cahsi found her three companions in Camp Dragonhead’s main tavern in the midst of a strange exchange. Emet-Selch had an elbow propped lazily on the tabletop, his hand raised with fingers pinched together beneath a tongue of orange-yellow flame. G’raha sat opposite him, nose scrunched and mouth drawn thin in extreme concentration, his right hand extended toward the flame. Ardbert sat between the two, nursing a mug of what was likely warmed mead in one hand and an ink-dipped quill hesitating over parchment in the other. The other patrons in the tavern, more interested in lunch than what looked like two mages engaged in a strange fire ritual (never mind that Emet-Selch had taken absolutely no steps to hide his Garlean identity), seemed to take no notice of the three.

Entranced at what in the world they could possibly be doing, Cahsi moved until she could catch the trio’s words over the tavern’s muted din and then lingered, listening.

After a period of absolutely nothing happening, G’raha’s lip curled briefly in abject frustration, and he dropped his hand to the table with a sigh.

In consolation, Ardbert said to G’raha, “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It definitely flickered that time,” and placed his mug back onto the table as he scribbled some sort of note onto the parchment. 

From her new angle, Cahsi could see it boasted a fair amount of crooked, wobbly scribblings, as well as a number of smudges that corresponded to black streaks on Ardbert’s gloves and forearm. As they’d discovered upon experimentation in The Rising Stones, his writing was a nearly lost skill in dire need of practicing, lest Ardbert’s letters be mistaken for an eight-year-old’s.

“If you say so… I believe I peaked at turning the flame blue,” G’raha murmured. His words were somewhat morose, and almost too low for Cahsi to catch, “which had been well over a bell ago.”

“Except your current goal isn’t to change its composition, it’s to align with my control and extinguish it,” Emet-Selch said, speaking at his usual _I don’t care if all of Ishgard hears me_ volume. Cahsi winced. That probably didn’t help G’raha’s embarrassment. “It’s clear you’re holding yourself back.” 

G’raha eyed the flame with trepidation. “Whenever we get close to snuffing its light, it feels as though it would rather explode than extinguish. I’d prefer not to set the parchment, or any patron, on fire.”

“As I told you before, it won’t explode unless we _both_ will it to. Even if I couldn’t assure you of that, you’re not at the stage where you need worry about consequences. Such petty concerns only hamper your progress.”

“Hold on, _no_ , he should definitely be worried about consequences,” Ardbert cut in, straightening up in his seat. Cahsi was reminded immediately of Nyelbert’s plight. Indeed, Ardbert continued with, “I have it on good authority that a mage reaching for magics beyond their scope is a big problem for everyone around them, actually, which currently includes this entire tavern, and also me.”

“No mage grows without a few good mistakes under their belt,” was Emet-Selch’s unreassuring reply. “It’s part of learning.”

The flame continued its peaceful existence an ilm above his hand.

G’raha eyed it, then nipped the end of his right hand’s glove and pulled it off. Crystal exposed -- and still, the tavern patrons didn’t care! Was Emet-Selch working some sort of Ascian _ignore-me-please_ magic? -- he reached out and quickly closed a fist around the flame.

A tiny tendril of smoke eked out from between his fingers. 

“There we go,” he chirped, and if Cahsi didn’t know better, she’d think the G’raha Tia she’d first met to sit in his place, “goal accomplished. What’s next?”

Ardbert smothered his slight smile in his mug.

Emet-Selch leveled a look of utmost loathing at G’raha. It probably wasn’t serious.

He said, “Well done. When it comes to problem solving, you can now stand toe-to-toe with the average caveman.”

Mockingly shaking out his crystal hand from a burn he definitely didn’t feel, G’raha sat back and preened.

“Why, thank you. It’s all because I’ve been learning from the best. Or, so I’ve been told.”

Their strange fire ritual thus concluded, Cahsi thought it a fine time to announce her return.

Busy as Emet-Selch was in telling G’raha that he wouldn’t improve if he didn’t _really try_ , whatever that meant, Ardbert spotted her first. He raised his mug to her in welcome, which alerted the two bickering mages to her approach but did not deter Emet-Selch from finishing his admonishment of G’raha’s creative thinking. Obviously ignoring his makeshift teacher’s words, G’raha shot her a small but truly happy smile, and put his glove back on.

“It’s a miracle.” Ardbert greeted her. “You’re on time. Eris would be proud.”

“Hush, you,” she said, grinning. “Ishgard is doing as well as they could be after a near-civil war. Better than the Ishgard I knew, for sure, though I’m sure the people here wouldn’t agree. In any case, Aymeric sends his regards, and a sincere hope to meet all of you in the near future. He plans to attend one of Nanamo’s banquets next month if he is given leave to do so outside of his official capacity, and is sure we’d be welcome as well.”

“Didn’t Tataru mention a letter to that effect arriving a week ago?” G’raha asked. “She already agreed that we’d send at least four representatives for the Scions.”

“Maybe.” Probably, now that Cahsi thought about it. Banquets weren’t usually her thing, so she tended to forget. “If we want to make it, though, we should head for Rhalgr’s Reach sooner rather than later. I’d like time to catch up with Lyse-- and you with Cid, right, G’raha?”

“If he isn’t too busy,” G’raha hedged. By the barely-constrained excitement that appeared in his eyes, Cahsi would do her best to make sure he wasn’t.

Emet-Selch had a vague frown on his face. Rather than being merely his default expression, it seemed he was honestly intrigued. “What is nan Garlond doing at Rhalgr’s Reach?”

“Wrapping up his affairs with the Omega investigation,” if Tataru was right, which she typically was.

His intrigue grew. “So _that’s_ where that cumbersome contraption disappeared to.” At his wistful tone, G’raha shot him a questioning look. Catching it, Emet-Selch shook his head and tossed up his hands. “-- If you’ll believe me, no. I had nothing to do with the Omega project. Not directly, at least.”

“I’ve no idea what any of you are talking about,” Ardbert said, pushing the smudged-up parchment to G’raha and downing whatever remained in his mug in one long pull. After, he dropped it -- with better control this time, as it didn’t even tip -- and stood. “But hitting the road sounds fine. Guess you’ll have to fill me in on the way.”

**. . .**

According to Cahsi, Rhalgr’s Reach was much improved from the reborn nation they knew. Considering the lack of an Empire breathing down their necks and breaking down their doors, it made sense. Still, life wasn’t easy: instead of a war for freedom from an Empire, the people were caught in an endless fight with local, power-hungry factions and beast tribes over the area’s scant resources. Emet-Selch had excused himself from their group the moment the city’s ancient pillars came into view. The fact that he’d _said_ good-bye told G’raha he would be missing for the majority, if not all, of their stay.

Cahsi wasn’t too torn up to see him go, and told G’raha as much after he’d disappeared. Even if the Lyse and people of _this_ world didn’t know the shadow of Solus zos Galvus’ hand in Rhalgr’s Reach’s many tragedies, Cahsi did. It felt like an insult to let the great-grandfather of Zenos walk through its doors without reproach. For their promise to Hythlodaeus (which she and Ardbert had been filled on when Emet-Selch wasn’t in earshot) and the fondness and worry Eris had for the Hades she’d once known, she wouldn’t actually seek proper recompense from him. 

“I doubt there’s anything I could do that would make him regret more than our time in Amaurot had, anyway,” she’d grumbled in an uncharacteristic show of bitterness. 

There was a unique sorrow in lacking justice for a crime that none save them remembered. Neither Ardbert or G’raha had the words to rebuff her. 

In any case, they didn’t see him again for the three days they stayed within the city’s tall, painted-rock walls.

Lyse was overjoyed to see her friend return, and doubly excited to make her companion’s acquaintance. Cahsi divulged as much about the original Source and the First to Lyse as she had the other Scions-- for Lyse was, even though she’d grown into a leader for her people, still and forever one of their confidantes. Cid would have been included, but it turned out he’d left a few days before for some matter in the Burn. Lyse couldn’t say when or if he’d return, though she hoped so. He’d been of great help in repairing their gates after the last Anantan attack.

Lyse made their stay as comfortable and enjoyable as possible. They were provided the best rooms in the house, so to speak, and included in the most interesting patrol routes. She didn’t question when G’raha disappeared for the first and second nights (a night’s rest spent in the Tower’s halls, and he could return at dawnbreak, fully refreshed! How he’d ever thought that time too much, he didn’t know). On their third and last night, she set up a bonfire celebration for their last night, at which she promptly drank Cahsi and Ardbert both under the table. G’raha had begged off overt participation by being the score-keeper on shots taken, though he’d indulged in enough drinks that the room swayed when he stood up to fetch Lyse’s winning round.

So, maybe he drank more than he intended. At least he’d remember the night, which was more than could be said for the Warriors of Light.

Lyse’s winning round was a delightful golden color, and as Cahsi and Ardbert were all but snoozing under the table, she encouraged G’raha to give it a try. 

He tried a sip, then another. And another.

And another, til the room spun even while he sat. He begged off it then, and apologized profusely as he realized he’d drank half the cup.

She’d laughed and told him not to worry, throwing a warm, companionable arm over his shoulders as she took back the cup, set it upon their table, and brought back a flask of water for him to sip from instead. As he invested in the suddenly-delicious water, she leaned heavily upon him and asked, in a stage whisper, “You and Cahsi sure have been through a lot together, huh?”

“She certainly attracts more than her share of adventures,” he replied, distracted with figuring out how to fit the cap back onto the flask before he stopped because, actually, he’d like more of it, thanks. “I’ve been fortunate to join on even a few.”

She waited for him to start to take a long drink before saying, “And during those adventures, it seems like you two have grown close. How close? Really close, or really-really close?”

Her meaning and angle _then_ occurring to him, he choked on his water. 

“-- Sorry! Was that too forward?” She gave him a few light slaps on the back while he regained his composure and breath. “I didn’t mean any offense. It’s just that you seem like a good soul, and she needs more people like that at her back… I know she took an interest in that Doman Lord, but it hadn’t gone anywhere to my knowledge. And you, well...”

“I?” he asked when she trailed off with a small smile directed at the snoring lump under the table that was Cahsi Theia. He wondered if he’d regret asking, especially after the mention of the ‘Doman Lord,’ who he presumed to be Hien. Cahsi mentioned him without fail when she spoke of Doma, and she spoke of Doma fairly frequently after they departed Revenant’s Toll. Every time, her tone had a wistful, fond edge. G’raha wasn’t so blind as to miss the implications that she felt stronger for him than typical of one leader to another.

Truthfully, G’raha was just well and truly baffled at which part of the conversation he was meant to reply to first.

She said,“It’s obvious you care for her a great deal.”

That seemed safe enough to reply with a, “I do.”

It came out a little more fervent than he intended. He winced, ducking the smile she turned on him, and resolutely returned to his water flask.

“As… we all do, I imagine,” he continued lamely, fiddling with the blasted cap, “her being as she is.”

“A wonderful force of nature?”

He smiled despite himself. It was maybe a bit sloppy. He couldn’t help it; on thinking of her, his hero, his Warrior of Light, the feelings just bubbled up, massive and entangled and so, so fond. “Yes, exactly.”

“She’d do well with a steady, rational voice at her side,” Lyse said, “especially as her reputation leads her to the forefront of our collective futures. But, that’s just my opinion.”

Something about that terminology sounded familiar…

His mind snagged on a not-so-dissimilar proposal by a Eulmore noble who had, in the times before Vauthry, hoped to one day be mayor. Struggling as he had been internally over his newfound role as the _all-knowing Exarch_ , he hadn’t fully appreciated the noble’s implications at the time, but he understood them now.

His happy-bubbly feelings popped.

“... If I may be so blunt,” Lyse nodded for him to go on, and so he did, “do you speak as a leader or a friend?”

Lyse’s smile froze.

She dropped her arm from his shoulders, and glanced away.

“Both, I would hope,” she said finally. “Though I hadn’t realized I’d-- really, forgive me. Jeez, and here, you hardly know me, I hardly know you, but I...” She fell silent, her hand curled at her mouth and eyes focused on some middle-distance he couldn’t see.

The heavy silence so rankled his fur, he offered as a neutral escape, “It’s a bit hard to turn off, isn’t it?”

She blinked at him, her attention returning. “Huh?”

“Leadership. It’s-- you know,” he made a gesture that was definitely clumsy, in which he meant to portray a heavy burden but instead properly just looked like he was patting his own back, “hard to remove. Even among friends.”

She gave him a small grin and quieter laugh. “That it is. You know something of it from your time as… the Exarch, was it?”

He did, and told her as much. Glad as he was to leave the landmine-strewn topic of his feelings toward Cahsi, he dove whole-heartedly into stories about the Crystarium. The lighter ones, of course, about establishing fair and just taxes without an onze of mathematical understanding, or squabbles between carpenters in construction bids that somehow ended with gifts of a dozen baby aldgoats to the Tower’s doors. 

Happily, she let him be about Cahsi. In no time at all after that, the bonfire dimmed and the lanterns were extinguished. Ardbert dragged himself up with a groan at some point, enlisted G’raha and Lyse in helping Cahsi up-- and then had to leave her to them, as he needed both hands to hold his head up on his way back to his bed. Cahsi woke only when Lyse threatened to toss her into the lake if she didn’t stand on her own two feet. It was a minor miracle they made it to their beds with minimal injuries.

When in bed and despite the alcohol-infused cloud covering his thoughts, G’raha found himself wide awake. It didn’t make sense. He had his own room. His bed was nice, just the right amount of firm, and blessedly cool. It was both too late to hear any crickets and too early for birdsong. He was tired from the journey and the Tower’s distant, ever-present call, its dissatisfaction at him being so far away for a full day and night evident in the faint ache where skin met crystal.

He should’ve been asleep instantly.

And yet.

It was too quiet.

The Scions weren’t within arm’s reach, with Thancred snoring loud enough to rival a dragon’s snarl and the twins scuffling over each other’s bad nighttime habits of pillow-thievery and blanket-hoarding. Aether did not hum through ancient crystal walls. Urianger did not throw up a facade of stars overhead because Ryne’s dreams woke her and she struggled to again fall asleep. He himself didn’t have a candle burning so that he might read a book, as if the glow didn’t light up the whole room; and Y’shtola, next to him, her tablet aglow with its own special light. 

It was far, far too quiet.

G’raha closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He then rolled over and shoved his face into his pillow, willing himself to fall asleep.

Instead his thoughts wandered, aimless and formless. On a whim, he thought of an instant long past. An accident, truly, and not one he’d ever felt inclined to repeat for a large amount of good, solid reasons. 

Once upon a time, he’d called through the Rift for the Warrior of Light, and instead reached a bored, too-curious Ascian.

It had taken a tremendous amount of power and energy. As a communication across universes, it demanded no less.

 _What of across a Star…?_

When he didn’t even know where he was looking? Ah, but he knew _what_ he was looking for. Little could be mistaken for an Ascian. Were there another wandering around, he might have something to worry about, but there was only the one, and at this point, he knew Emet-Selch’s shape and signature energies well.

Figuring there was only ever one way to find out, he tapped into the spell he’d spent so many years perfecting, and called out, focusing on what he knew of his target, which was all but its place: _Emet-Selch? Are you there?_

The drain on his energy was instant, but nothing even close to a call that had doubled as a summoning across the Rift. 

Rather, it was like yelling into a deep, dark well. Cold and unrewarding.

He strained to hear anything in return. 

Nothing did.

… He didn’t feel like trying again. Once was enough. He resolved to try again at sleep, or (more likely) to put his energies to better use in making sure his body would run fine during the day. Their next stop was Doma. Apparently there was a Garlean airship to take which cut down on travel time quite a bit, but as there was only one, they needed to hurry to the port to reach it in time. By Cahsi’s confused frown when she’d been told Cid went to the Burn, it was possible they would try to squeeze that in, too, before Nanamo’s banquet and whatever other trouble inevitably popped up.

Just as G’raha buried his head under his pillow and pressed it down on his ears to keep out the room’s unrelenting silence, he heard, _Of course I’m here. Should I be concerned that you’re contacting me so?_

The words arrived not through his ears, but directly into his mind. It echoed, more impression and emotion than true _sound_. It was reminiscent of every other Amaurotine he’d ever heard speak, except perceiving it instantly made his headache - which he hadn’t realized he’d had - five times worse.

All the same, he again drew upon his magics and replied, feeling as a baby aldgoat must in its first wobbling steps into the world, _No. All is well. I wished to see if_ , and this came slower and harder, the conviction necessary to speak through this method wavering, because what did he wish to see? Where Emet-Selch had ran off to? What he was up to, whether it was nefarious or not? Or did he merely wish for some company to alleviate the room’s dark?

He didn’t manage to find the words before a somehow-affable yellow haze overtook G’raha’s vision, even though he knew his eyes were closed tight, and Emet-Selch said, _Then there is no need to yell, my dear Exarch,_ though G’raha didn’t understand what he meant by just about any of that, _I won’t be leaving for a while yet._

Leaving. Not the simple physical separation, but a true departure, a good-bye-for-ever, an I-cannot-return. There was so much in that _leaving._ So much he couldn’t grasp, couldn’t comprehend, and still, understood.

He became suddenly and aggressively conscious of the fact that his head, it-- hurt. A lot. A lot, a lot.

Through the pain, he glimpsed: Emet-Selch was in a place that should not have existed without his and his kin’s interference, but it did. He had not shared his recent findings with the Scions but he supposed he might, soon. He stood beneath a dragon bound, her wings outstretched by terrible hooks and her heart brought low by all-consuming despair. Though he’d once dismissed her voluntary imprisonment as short-sighted and needlessly self-destructive, he sought now to hear her story again.

He thought G’raha needed to sleep. He thought G’raha was overextending himself, though he also thought it admirable. _This is a good sort of mistake, mage._ He’d share the place with G’raha later, if G’raha would like to see his ancestors’ second-greatest accomplishment. This time, they’d built it with no assistance. That was incredible of them. Then, after, G’raha could tell the Scions, and Emet-Selch would not have to, and everyone would be happier for it.

G’raha would be happier after he slept. Emet-Selch had slept twice since their return to the Source. He did not plan to sleep again for a long time. But, sleep was great. He would like to sleep. He could not, because--

He bid G’raha to sleep. 

G’raha felt himself slip into the dark, deep well, his thoughts settling under a numbing blanket of heavy, dreamless black, and slept.

(When he woke, he remembered the experience in fits and bursts. It was a memory most evasive, more emotion than sense. He clung to what he could, and in that, found most prominent: _Azys Lla._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is basically finished and will be updated every Monday from here on (or sooner, if impatience strikes). See you all then!
> 
> In the meantime, find me at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter if you like. :]


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't know what the Warring Triad / Azys Lla's optional content is about: Elidibus saved a kid from becoming voidsent, dropped him off at Scion daycare, forgot to come back, and so then Krile & Urianger & Y'shtola adopted the kid so loudly that a bunch of Allagan primals woke up to congratulate them
> 
> also Regula was there until he wasn't
> 
> if you have played Warring Triad: please forgive me for how fast and loose I play with Azys Lla lore, it's all just very fun and really delightfully confusing

By willpower alone, they rose early enough in the morn to catch the airship to Doma.

It was a massive, impressive thing, with a great curved steel top and no less than eight propellers. It looked like a smaller version of what Cahsi originally knew as a dreadnought, except its weaponry was clearly proportional to defensive measures only. 

They had a small debate on whether they should wait for Emet-Selch, which was when G’raha confessed that he’d managed to establish a sort of two-way communication line with him and that, presumably, he was still talking to some sort of imprisoned dragon. Unfortunately, wakefulness had made the details fuzzy, though he did recall it was in a place called Azys Lla. Cahsi recognizes the name instantly, and begged him for more details. He told what he could, ending with an apologetic emphasis that the link hadn’t allowed for much, just enough for them to check in on each other’s status, and moreover, that it took a lot out of him. Because it was possible at all, they collectively agreed on there being no need to wait. They also agreed that they very much wished they’d thought ahead and grabbed linkpearls, or - if they could really change the past - stocked up on boxes of Amaurotine tablets before returning to the Source.

Strange was it indeed to board a ship manned entirely by Garleans, and be among groups of non-Garlean families returning from overseas trips and many cheery, chatting tourists. Though the Garlemald Commonwealth boasted a sizable military that permeated their culture and policed their borders as strictly as any Ishgardian, and though they also had an iron-fisted hold on the magitek market and plenty of rumored dealings in weapons to stir up trouble when their coffers ran low, the nation itself was not interested in the direct, brutal colonization the Empire had been infamous for. While the Eorzean people still didn’t take especially _kindly_ to the alien Northerners, asking about any genocidal tendencies stirred offense on their behalf.

If that was truly the case, Cahsi and G’raha both wondered what had driven Cid from the country’s borders. That didn’t seem like the type of thing to ask just anyone, however, and so they resolved to keep the question for when they reunited with him properly.

Few aboard the ship recognized Cahsi, and so they were largely left to their own devices. They were lucky in having their own room, outfitted with two cots and one hammock. The airship ride was a week’s journey. G’raha resolved to make it without returning to the Tower, if only to see how far his renewed body could go.

While Ardbert and Cahsi mock-argued over who got the hammock, G’raha made sure his glove and sleeve covered his crystal arm and excused himself from their room to explore the ship. Most of the inner halls had the same industrial look as expected of a utilitarian vessel, with nondescript rows of steel doors set between thin plating or exposed piping. 

On reaching the outer deck’s starboard railing, he found the Emet-Selch. 

He’d outfitted himself in Garlean style, albeit with more silver-and-gold lace along a longer skirt than most. On first glance, rather than be surprised by his presence, G’raha was just relieved he hadn’t shown up with dripping in royal regalia.

“There you are,” Emet-Selch greeted him, tone not as impatient as G’raha would have expected by how he leaned on the railing. “Are you ready?”

G’raha joined him at the railing and furrowed his brow. “For what?”

“An Allagan Flagship.” G’raha’s gaze snapped to meet his. Emet-Selch didn’t seem to be kidding, but what he claimed didn’t make sense. “It puts this floating bucket to shame.”

“I would… imagine,” he allowed. “Are you speaking true?”

“As ever I do.”

“It’s here? On the Source?”

A nod.

Unbidden, the dream-like connection from the night before rose: _Azys Lla._ An Allagan island, five thousands years preserved. 

He wasn’t sure how he knew that number, as he was sure he didn’t know the Flagship or its small universe’s manufacture date, but he did. Just as he knew now his communications with Emet-Selch, even the inexplicable ending that was more impression than word, hadn’t been an alcohol-induced night-fever. Azys Lla was no longer a mysterious floating treasure box. He could reach a new chunk of Allagan history that _wasn’t_ the Tower, and dust his boots on its open paths.

Researchers had long theorized what Allagan secrets lurked behind Azys Lla’s barrier. According to Cahsi, the barrier had been cracked open after he’d locked himself in the Tower, which had been a little frustrating to hear because hey, he’d been at the forefront of Allag studies, he should’ve been around for its discovery—

Better late than never, wasn’t it?

It was a historian’s dream come true. It was definitely inordinately tempting.

He opened his mouth to accept, the impulse in him rising fast and strong; but then forced himself to stop, because actually, he wasn’t a mere historian anymore, and he wasn’t traveling alone. Running off without warning would alarm the others. 

And maybe Cahsi would be interested in joining them…?

That would be nice.

“I need to tell--” he started, but Emet-Selch cut him off.

“I’ll leave them a note that they are bound to find. Will that suffice?”

It shouldn’t. 

But Emet-Selch could just snap his fingers and off they would go, and… Cahsi had been to Azys Lla before, if her recognition at _a place with an imprisoned dragon_ had been anything to go by. So. She probably wouldn’t mind if he didn’t tell her personally. It would’ve been nice to go with her in another proper mini-adventure, but… 

Wicked White, he _really_ wanted to see Azys Lla. Immediately.

“We must return by dark,” he said as sternly as possible, lying to himself that the restriction was to hold _Emet-Selch_ accountable, “and you’d best put that in the note, too.”

“Ever the worrywart.” Nonetheless, Emet-Selch snapped his fingers, and showed G’raha the paper that appeared thereafter in his hand. The words upon it provided the sufficient notice, expected return time included. G’raha tried to read it carefully, but he found himself mostly distracted by the signature, which was a hastily sketched miqo’te face with a stubby, sticking-straight-sideways ponytail. “Here. This is what I will place on their door. Satisfied?”

“Not quite,” he deadpanned. “Have you any ink I might borrow?”

One brow raising, Emet-Selch manifested a sleek, Amaurotine-style pen, and handed it - and the note - to him. 

G’raha added a crude approximation of Emet-Selch’s dour, scowling face next to the miqo’te, put heavy emphasis on the furrowed eyebrows, took a moment to appreciate his handiwork, and passed it back. 

He pocketed the pen. If he really wanted it, Emet-Selch could always make another one.

“Just needed to fix what was missing. Now, it’s perfect.” His head itched, his ears so wanting to move with his barely-bridled excitement. At least his tail could properly curl, though he felt a _little_ silly with how quickly it shot up. “Thank you. With that, I believe we’re set.”

Though Emet-Selch’s expression could only be described as bemused, he sent the paper off as-was with a magic _pop!_ Hopefully, it reappeared on their door as planned. G’raha didn’t have the time to check, as immediately after, Emet-Selch offered his hand, G’raha took it, and a portal of black aether lurched up to whisk them away.

**. . .**

“Would it now be Solus ‘wir’ Galvus, instead of ‘zos?’”

“If it was, that would mean that if the right person met an untimely end, I would have a chance at again becoming Emperor.”

“Theoretically, that would be _eventually_ true for any long-standing national.” A small pause. “Does Solus ‘anything’ Galvus even still exist?”

“He should. I didn’t create him, I chose him.”

“You-- _when?_ ”

“I hadn’t any interest in reliving infancy but I also didn’t care to explain away a sudden stroke of genius and personality change, so I waited until he was roughly three years old. … What? Don’t give me that look. I painlessly extracted his soul and ushered it to the Lifestream for rebirth _before_ I inhabited the body. I doubt he even understood what was happening.”

A longer pause.

G’raha blew out a sigh, and decided it wasn’t worth fighting, as it technically had no longer happened and, hopefully, was unlikely to happen again in the near future. “So out there is probably a Solus ignorant of his other self’s fate, at last living his actual life?”

“Probably. If he didn’t die from a stubbed toe, twisted ankle, or the myriad of other banal diseases that do you mortals in.”

“Hm.”

“His family had been long-established in the Garlean society. I’m not sure if that is still true.”

“I wonder… There’s too many discrepancies for us to possibly keep track of, but I’d like to record the bigger ones. For prosperity sake, if nothing else.”

Emet-Selch didn’t look too interested about that. Rather, he refocused on, “If every national might eventually inherit, you do recognize that this Flagship belongs solely to you?”

First, alarm: “-- That’s!” Then, a pause, and, “Not even theoretical, actually. Considering my,” an embarrassed pause, “royal bloodline and entrustment,” however peculiar and heavy it felt.

Of course, Emet-Selch took the chance to jape, “ _Now_ you hesitate to lay claim? Whyever for? Not a moment ago, you were jumping about with stars in your eyes. Which, so you know, I find remarkable, as the state of this place is positively decrepit.”

Oh, he knew. Emet-Selch had repeated the sentiment multiple times throughout their investigations. He’d pointed out where the technology varied from the original Allag’s, too, usually in conjunction with a statement that _his_ version had inspired much, much better. Apparently, the new Allag’s technology had excessively sloppy craftsmanship, and less a grasp of the underlying scientific concepts as a solid bull-headed desire to make their theories work how they wanted them to. That it had worked enough to keep their Flagship aloft and their Crystal Tower safe baffled Emet-Selch.

The differences, which weren’t at all perceptible to G’raha, didn’t dim his enamorment any. 

“It’s a heap of junk to you, maybe. To me, this is a giant, floating treasure trove. I can’t believe most of these nodes are still in _operation._ Do you think-- Cid would be able to puzzle out how to fix one properly, wouldn’t he? Or, oh! Anyone else at Ironworks, really. They’d all be more than able to handle the task. We should bring one back for them to take a look at. Think of the stories it could tell...”

“Such as five thousand years’ worth of weather reports. I can hear it now: year two-thousand and ninety-seven, just as every year prior, was a dense aetherial lightning storm and heavy fog. The imagination runs wild with what riveting reveal year two-thousand ninety-eight has in store.”

G’raha took a break from his cheerful poking-and-prodding at a round, green-lined assembly node to level Emet-Selch with a flat, unimpressed look. Emet-Selch merely raised his eyebrows in return, unperturbed. 

They’d just finished viewing Castrum Solus at ground-level. Though G’raha was _certain_ the interior and aerial view had more to offer considering its apparent latent status as a manufacturing plant for who-knew-what, they had spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon on the Flagship’s upper decks. Therein, upon confrontation with one too many half-clockwork, half-flesh monsters and G’raha’s subsequent acceptance that the Allagans really, _really_ liked their genetic experimentation, Emet-Selch had shown him the neighboring Habisphere and Biomass Incubation Complex. Sites which of course made G’raha wonder at how they maintained their production levels on a floating vessel, and thus: Castrum Solus. 

Point was, the day’s end was close at hand. A blink away, actually, which was completely unfair. He regretted giving himself a deadline to return by, because this-- he didn’t care if he had to funnel power from the Tower to keep himself awake, he wanted to see every inch of this place, _immediately._

Emet-Selch sat at the edge of the Matter Conduit VI-VII, one leg folded up to his chest and the other dangling. He thought it wise to bring them back to Helix and use the aetheryte there to teleport out before pinpointing the Garlean ship’s exact coordinates, lest Azys Lla’s turbulent nature follow them and cause a strange reaction with whatever fuel the Garleans used to power their airships. As he hadn’t taken the time to investigate what had driven his old empire from its snowy roots, he didn’t want to take chances. 

_The clean-up would be terrible,_ he’d claimed, _and since you would all insist on remaining until it was done, our return to Revenant’s Toll might be delayed weeks. Surely Augurelt doesn’t need that much time to locate the proper documents on the Calamities._

As though Emet-Selch couldn’t simply return to Revenant’s Toll when he wanted and wait for _their_ reports on the changes among their allies, rather than travel with them to see for himself. Privately, G’raha thought there to be another reason for his reluctance to hop about as willy-nilly as he used to, but it didn’t seem the time to push.

In any case, it was the first time Emet-Selch referenced himself as a part of their journey rather than a bored tag-along. G’raha didn’t dare disturb it. 

G’raha returned his attention to the node. It blinked at him, patiently awaiting interaction as its protocol dictated. Considering the state of the place, it had waited a long, long time for anyone.

“I’m not being facetious.”

Standing on the ground below Emet-Selch’s perch, G’raha distracted himself with dusting off the node’s surface. His gloves came away a thick film of dirt-red grime. “About the weather reports? I know. In a historian’s line of work, the mundane is often a highlight.” 

“Not that.” A beat. “You would consider yourself a historian?”

“It was my principal area of study prior to… well, everything.” He gave the somewhat-more-clean node a pat, and imagined the next blink of green was in gratitude. “Allag especially has always captured my fascination, and not only because my father was adamant that our family’s fate laid with it.”

“That was rather astute of him.”

“So I used to think. Now, I believe it was more a tradition. His father had told him the same, and his father’s father, because of--” He gestured to his eyes. 

Emet-Selch nodded. “And therein is where I’m not being facetious.” He slid his other leg down so they both dangled, and let him lean forward to better sweep his arms out in a grand gesture to encompass Azys Lla. “This is yours by birthright. There undoubtedly lingers yet sectors within its depths which will open more readily for you, an heir ascendant, than even the cleverest of engineers.”

Delight and dread rose in equal measure within him. 

Eventually, he managed, “Do primals not lurk at its heart?” Emet-Selch had explained the broad purpose behind the Azys Lla he had once helped create throughout their too-fast tour: its research into creation and manipulation of life, whether flesh or clockwork, and, ultimately, the binding of primals meant to bend to their will. 

It corroborated with references made in ancient Allagan texts about shipments of various raw materials to Azys Lla; and, more concerning, the numerous transport records of rebel-refugees whose names never again resurfaced. A thousand and one academic theories were finally answered here in Azys Lla, where G’raha himself could observe and investigate and—! His royal blood bound him to no obligation for its care or maintenance: it was purely a place for learning.

Yet-living primals aside, it was a dream come true.

On the subject of those primals, his impromptu guide (whose knowledge and admitted involvement with Allag during its prime was very unsurprising, very annoying and very fantastic) said:

“Eikons, actually. But yes. Three, all contained.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Emet-Selch glancing toward the Flagship’s hull, “For the moment, anyway. They appear to be slowly waking even as we speak, but won’t pose a threat for some time yet. If I recall correctly, the Warrior of Light had valiantly laid them to rest in our original timeline. Those particular agenda items must have slipped in priority in our current reality.” 

As the Allagans had managed to bind them, but not bend them, the primals would probably need to be put back onto the agenda.

There was probably a much bigger, Ascian-directed story behind _that_ (that applies to their original history, if not this time’s). G’raha planned to ask every single question he could get away with once they had the time to properly inspect the mid- and lower-decks.

“Sad and surprising as it may be, until they are again vanquished,” he said, dusting his hands off as he finally began to make his way toward the Matter Conduit’s ramp, “I’ll just have to hold off on moving in.”

“You’ll have your work cut out for you when you do. Infestation of vicious abominations aside, there’s certainly plenty of nodes in need of dusting.”

G’raha again felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. Sooner or later, he’d have to start calling it a smile, which sure was-- something, considering the cause.

“Do you have a favorite spot?” He asked, his curiosity suddenly striking him. Likely, he should have asked _before_ they very nearly needed to leave, but he’d been a bit caught up in the plethora of Allagan information every speck of Azys Lla offered him. 

Emet-Selch tracked his approach, deigning to rise only once G’raha had stopped by his side. 

He asked, “Here?”

“Yes.”

His head tilted to the side, his eyes wandering over the left of G’raha’s shoulder. These days, the Amaurotine behind the gesture was unmistakeable.

Rather than give a straightforward answer, Emet-Selch returned his gaze to G’raha and asked, “I do. Would you like to see it?”

Blank-faced as he was, G’raha would think them still discussing ancient weather reports.

Even so, he nodded. 

Emet-Selch gestured for him toward the teleportation pad. There, he brought the flickering, low-energy input screen up and typed in seemingly random coordinates without hesitation.

They had to wade through muck and a shallow stream and dodge the attentions of several five-headed hydras, but eventually they arrived at a tree which had been shot through with spiraling, purple-and-blue crystal. Bright blue fern-like leaves sprouted at the top in a pattern was reminiscent of a time-frozen explosion. Around it hung a haze of similar, slow-moving blue. Though the aether particles looked thick enough to choke from far away, once at the tree’s base, the air was as dry humidity: heavy, tangible, but harmless and beyond reasonable comprehension.

Everything within its haze was still. The world around them faded, though ancient, mindless dragons and broken automatons prowled just outside of the blue particles.

“What is this place?” G’raha asked once they stood below its paradoxical branches, neck craned to an aching degree so he might look straight up. His right arm tingled somewhat from the concentration of aether, but in a manner that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. He gripped its wrist tight with his other hand, willing the strange feeling to abate.

“The dragons here call it the Pappus Tree. Once a typical maple, it became as you see it roughly two thousand and five hundred years ago.” Emet-Selch stood with him, neck similarly craned. His face and voice were still blank, though something in G’raha told him it was a byproduct of a truly reflective mood, and not one not marred by spiraling dark thoughts or long-rotten grief. “I have no explanation for you beyond that. Never have I found a tree quite like it, or managed to recreate one for myself.”

Again, that smile twisted up G’raha’s lips. Emet-Selch in a reflective mood wasn’t so bad. “A tree beyond even the greatest sorcerer's comprehension? I’m surprised you’ve allowed me to see your limitation so starkly.”

“If only I had a Pappus Tree of my own,” Emet-Selch returned without missing a beat, deadpan, “the three primals in the Flagship might heed my call without enforcing a thrall.”

“If only,” he agreed, letting go of his right wrist to shake the arm’s prickling-static out, to little avail. “It is beautiful.”

“That’s an understatement. Those blue arches-- perhaps to you they look like leaves? They’re imbued with a particular weave of solidified crystal which inspires stillness in all surrounding life. What you’re witnessing isn’t a delayed stasis or mere increase in density or,” and here he struggled for the word, or maybe struggled to put a concept into words that G’raha would understand, which seemed more for lack of the proper shared vocabulary than his usual patronizing lilt. Either way, his agitation grew until he forcibly and obviously smothered it, eyes squeezing shut and fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. “-- Anything else typical of the area’s behavior. It’s slowing everything down, yes, but not by _force._ ”

It seemed important to Emet-Selch that he try to understand, and so he did. Try as he might, though, his limited understanding of crystals - largely supplied and governed by the Tower - made it difficult. He thought Emet-Selch’s clear delight in the tree’s scientific puzzle more compelling. All he really wanted to do was sit back and watch him pace and speculate. 

Even if he didn’t understand, he recognized enough to say, “So it’s a suggestion rather than a demand.”

That must have been the right thing, because Emet-Selch’s eyes reopened and he dropped his hand from his face, his spine straightening somewhat as his words grew in energy. “And life is _listening_ to it. You must understand, life always wants to move and move and move. Even in or toward death, life is ever-rushing. For something to catch its base attention and encourage it to slow is enticing it to go against its nature.” 

“Without duress or force.”

“Without even magic, in a strict sense of the word. The reactions it causes is purely based on its physical properties.” As if in rebuff to its express wishes, Emet-Selch moved with an abundance of energy: he turned on a heel, hands clasped behind his back, and strode around the tree’s thin base, his eyes scanning its form. Once he circled it and again reached G’raha’s side, he halted, took a deep breath, leaned into G’raha’s space, and admitted, as if in conspiracy: “I’d _hate_ to ever figure it out.”

Not shifting away though their faces were but three ilms apart and their shoes close to brushing, G’raha tilted his head back then to look up at Emet-Selch. “You could stop trying. Then you never would.”

“And give up its mystery? I think not.”

“It would be a dreadful day to be in a world without any mystery.”

“So it would.”

“You’d have to make your own.”

“I’ve tried.” He heaved a dramatic sigh, shaking his head; and still, kept close. “Never works.”

G’raha offered, “Perhaps with help,” and then wondered at what he was even saying, if it had meaning at all.

Emet-Selch seemed to think so. He leaned further into G’raha’s space, the tip of his shoe bumping against G’raha’s, the golden hem of his skirt brushing against his pant leg. G’raha found himself bending backwards to keep their gazes locked. 

“Are you offering, my dear, kind Exarch?”

There was that pet name again. More startling: gone was the drama and aplomb. In its place laid something warm and keenly interested, his voice pitched low. G’raha wondered where he’d misstepped, for Emet-Selch was surely heading down a path that he couldn’t see.

They were very close. Very, very close.

“Er,” he stuttered, his eyes darting to Emet-Selch’s soft, curved mouth and back _up_ , his face heating, “I-- maybe? What did you have in mind?”

The glint that sparked in Emet-Selch’s eye failed to re-orientate G’raha’s scattered thoughts. Instead, it made his face burn a thousand times worse. It was not very pleasant. It was, in fact, quite distressing, and all he knew then was that he really, really needed space.

“Oh,” Emet-Selch mused, the glint in his eye edged in that unknown warmth, something that on another person would easily be labeled _fondness,_ “I can think of--”

“-- It’s gotten rather late, hasn’t it?” G’raha cut in, taking a quick step - and then three more - back. “We said we’d be back by dark, and though it’s difficult to tell through the, uh, lightning storm, and everything, I fear we’ve greatly overshot that deadline. Really, we should be going.”

For the second time since they’d arrived in the Source, Emet-Selch looked as if G’raha had dumped a bucket of water on his head. While the shock had been flattering when he’d successfully stopped his teleport in the stables, this time, it just made G’raha’s embarrassment burn brighter. The tree’s alleged stillness-inspiration really was more a suggestion than command, apparently. And so he became more immediately interested in returning to the airship, where he could hide himself behind Cahsi’s exuberance and Ardbert’s easy-going nature, and not think about strange, beautiful, one-of-a-kind trees or the soft blue light they cast upon unreasonably tall Emet-Selchs.

With his heart racing fast in his chest for no good reason at all, he turned on a heel and marched five determined steps in the direction of the Matter Conduit. But then he remembered he didn’t actually know the coordinates to put in, and while he could guess, it’d probably not work, and so he stopped and glanced back, over his hunched shoulders, at the one who _did_ know. 

That person lingered at the tree, looking after him with an expression of -- dare he call it -- fond exasperation.

“... If we must,” Emet-Selch said, tone back to blank. Whatever G’raha saw on his face didn’t make it into his voice.

“We must,” G’raha insisted. “To Helix, then?”

“To Helix, yes.”

At far too slow and deliberate a pace, Emet-Selch walked toward him. Though it made his throat close up and his mouth dry, G’raha made a point to keep his chin up and not let it cross his face.

By the persistent glint in Emet-Selch’s eye, he couldn’t be sure he was successful. It made him feel better to try, at least.

**. . .**

By the half-moon hanging high overhead, it was well past dark when Emet-Selch teleported them back to the airship. When G’raha pointed out as much in a grumbled aside on their way back through the halls to the room, Emet-Selch told him not to be so worried, that it wasn’t as if the other two were going anywhere for the next few days. When they arrived at the room, Emet-Selch gave G’raha an exaggerated bow with a possibly-probably-not-sincere _thank you for the fine day, Exarch_ , then straightened, gave the door two brisk knocks, and promptly disappeared.

Which left G’raha to stand alone when Cahsi wrenched opened the door with a big, fake gasp and mockingly accusatory, “G’raha Tia! You were out so late! Get in here-- you’re telling us _all_ about your little rendezvous-- including what you were _thinking_ , leaving alone with Emet-Selch on a _whim_ and only leaving us a ridiculous note under our _door_ , I’d searched half the ship before I found it!”

“Before _you_ found it?”

“-- Okay, okay, fine, before I _and_ Ardbert found it-- I might’ve gotten a little worried. Just a little, though!”

“She was ready to teleport to Helix and demand Emet-Selch explain himself in person,” Ardbert helpfully supplied. He ran his commentary from the hammock, his arms crossed behind his head and legs kicked out, one foot crossed over the other. By the pleased air radiating off him, he considered the hammock prize well-won.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” G’raha managed to get out, both relieved and flustered at Cahsi acting exactly like the whirlwind he’d expected. “It really was meant to be a mere day-trip.”

Cahsi leveled him with a _are you serious_ look. It was inordinately affectionate. “In Azys Lla, megacenter of Allagan scientific research? Oh, yes. Only a day-trip. You’ve already planned your return, haven’t you?”

G’raha’s smile turned sheepish, and he ducked his head.

“It was incredible,” he admitted, “and I do hope to soon return, but…”

Soft blue light. A strange, one-of-a-kind tree. 

And a new element to their discussions that Emet-Selch just _had_ to drop at his feet before fleeing, the _bastard._ What had he even meant by--? Well, alright, G’raha was oblivious, but he wasn’t that oblivious; he knew very well what Emet-Selch meant. The lean-in, the look in his eye--

What he didn’t know was what to do with it.

Overwhelmed by vague possibilities and the even vaguer but overwhelming emotions underneath, G’raha compulsively swallowed. 

“But…?” Cahsi pressed, her curiosity open and plain.

“-- I think I’d appreciate more eyes than mine to better spot its wonders. Perhaps you would like to join?” He ended, turning eyes that he really hoped weren’t too wide to her. By the crack in his throat, he didn’t think he was entirely successful.

“Oh!” Cahsi blinked, momentarily startled. Whatever she saw in his face didn’t alarm her, however, so he must not have been as obvious as he felt. “Oh, sure. Definitely. Are the eikons still there?”

“Though I did not observe them myself, Emet-Selch said they were.”

“Without the Garlean’s interference, I suppose they wouldn’t quickly awaken. And then there’s still their thralls to contend with, and…” Her words descended into mumbles, her hand at her chin. “... Actually, come to think of it, the Thirteenth is supposedly still consumed by Darkness. Without Elidibus, Unukalhai would be… Hm…”

While she deliberated, G’raha carefully edged around her toward the unruffled bed that he assumed to be his, peeling off his gloves and hat as he went. 

“What’s eikons, exactly?” Ardbert asked him after Cahsi continued to be lost in thought, his interest piqued. 

“Primals, essentially.” Or something. G’raha was a little foggy on the details himself, though he recalled the Warring Triad to be mentioned at the periphery of a few of his oldest and most favorite history books on the Allagan Empire’s fall. 

Ardbert sighed, casting an arm over his eyes. “ _Primals_. ‘Course.”

“Last time, Urianger, Y’shtola and Krile helped me out with this particular batch. We definitely should check them out sooner than later.” Cahsi crossed her arms, foot tapping as she cast her eyes upwards in further thought. G’raha took a ginger seat on the edge of the bed, and watched her. It was always enjoyable to watch her think and plan, as she did so with the whole of her heart. After a pause, she arrived at a decision, as she blew out a breath and said, “Well, I’ll be sure to send them a letter to let them know, and that we’ve done a bit of preliminary investigation. Not like we’re expected in Doma before this airship’s arrival, so surely we can squeeze in an assisted teleport to Helix and back…”

“I’m sure Emet-Selch can be convinced to lend his aid,” G’raha murmured.

Cahsi’s eyes snapped to his so quickly, he almost jumped. “-- You are? Why’s that?” She spoke lightly, an unusual gleam in her eye.

“Cahsi,” Ardbert said, an exasperated note in his voice, “come on, leave him be,” which made it sound like they’d been _talking_ about G’raha, or maybe even _Talking_ , with the capital T. That was a mite intimidating, especially for his jumped-up nerves from a full day canvasing Azys Lla. His gaze darted between them, his ear pricked to catch the edges of whatever he’d missed.

She didn’t let up. “You haven’t explained what you two were doing there, since it was apparently _not_ a very belated and random kidnapping…”

He glanced between her and Ardbert, who had removed the arm from his eyes but was resolutely staring at the ceiling. G’raha’s confusion grew. “Am I… missing something?”

“Nothing at all,” Cahsi chirped, plopping herself down backwards on the other bed. Ardbert swatted at her from his hammock. She swatted back. Both missed each other. “I was just wondering what you two did. Azys Lla isn’t the nicest of places, even if it is full of ancient wonders.”

That didn’t seem to be the whole truth of it, but he couldn’t work out what else she might have been implying. Underneath that oddly interested cheer was a genuine question, however, and so he answered it to the best of his ability.

And if he glazed over the part about the Pappus Tree, well-- it wasn’t like anything would come of it. As Emet-Selch said, the thing was a millennia-long mystery.

It was only once he finished speaking and they had retired upon mutual agreement to request Emet-Selch’s assistance in getting Ardbert to Helix for proper aetheryte attunement that G’raha realized he hadn’t asked about the imprisoned dragon’s story, or how Emet-Selch thought of it now. In the same sleepy thought curled the vague question of, _and hadn’t he mentioned he hadn’t been sleeping?_ which was most certainly an alarming fact considering the Ascian’s perpetual exhaustion. Both would have to be answered in morning’s light, however, as G’raha soon drifted off, lulled to sleep by the airship’s groaning pipes, the soft creaking of Ardbert’s hammock swaying, and the rhythmic scratch of quill to paper as Cahsi penned her letters to the Scions by witchlight.

**. . .**

In the morn, G’raha again ran into Emet-Selch in the most random of places: this time in the food hall, at the chef’s first bell for breakfast. His eyes set first and foremost on G’raha, but fortunately, Cahsi and Ardbert were but one step behind him; and so, rather than risk an awkward conversation about the prior day’s ending, G’raha greeted him and immediately requested he take them _all_ to Azys Lla, if he would be so kind.

… And then amended, _or, just Ardbert and Cahsi, actually, since I’ve attuned to Helix, so-- if- you’re alright with that--_

Rambling of which Emet-Selch had interrupted with a plain and easy assent. So plain and easy, in fact, none of the mortals quite believed he meant it. 

“Really?” G’raha had even blurted, blinking wide eyes at him. 

Emet-Selch shrugged. “Certainly. It’s a trifling matter.” But then, with his hands clasped behind him and a slight lean forward to better loom over then, “If, however, this starts a trend of me acting as your personal transport service,” words sharpened on the edge of disdainful caution, “I won’t be able to guarantee _where_ exactly you’ll be left.”

“And _there_ he is,” Cahsi said with a sigh, patting Ardbert and G’raha both on the back in apparent relief. “Phew. For a second, I thought we’d made an accord with an imposter.”

“The ease was rather concerning,” G’raha agreed readily.

“I’m not joking,” Emet-Selch sniffed.

“Oh, we know,” Cahsi assured him, “that’s what makes your first offer trustworthy. Anyway-- okay, breakfast for the road, and then off we go!”

Despite Emet-Selch repeating his warning twice more throughout the trip and adding a few cutting remarks about their absurdly low standards for accepting aid, it worked out remarkably well. G’raha even remembered in time to inquire after the imprisoned dragon, which Emet-Selch admitted to _understanding_ better even though her story hadn’t changed (and though he didn’t elaborate on what ‘understanding’ entailed). The conversation between them led to Cahsi confessing she, alongside Midgardsromr, had previously spoken to Tiamat as well. She was surprised the dragon had woken enough to speak with Emet-Selch, especially considering the Ascian’s hand in her imprisonment and heart’s sorrow---

But then she stopped, nearly biting through her cheek, as she, G’raha and Ardbert collectively remembered: the only Ascian that yet existed was no longer known to any, save them.

… It was then more of a shock to hear of Tiamat still in such a state, absent malicious intervention.

She remarked as much, much more subdued on this line of questioning.

“And here I thought you’d been paying attention.” Emet-Selch gestured to the vestiges of a great civilization’s terrible legacy. “Though I and my brethren may have provided the tools for cruelty and conquest, never did we force them into your hands and pull the trigger. The blood-soaked weight of those decisions laid squarely with you.”

Thinking, Cahsi fell silent, but Ardbert would hear none of it.

He snarled, his good nature disappearing immediately under an old, hidden hurt, “Your _tools_ drove people into corners, and conditioned escape on their ability to pass along ever-escalating evils.”

Digging in his metaphorical heels, Emet-Selch returned with a nasty twist to his mouth, “If that isn’t your natural state, how do you explain what came of this world?”

“Where had the Allagans gotten these tools?” G’raha cut in. “They… fell from the sky? Surely I am remembering that wrong.”

“No, you’re remembering right. Urianger is looking into that,” Cahsi said, “alongside Y’shtola and any others with time to spare.”

“Time restraints duly considered, they can only add so much to the findings by the legions of historians before them,” G’raha said, eyes on Emet-Selch.

Bristling immediately at the presumption, Emet-Selch scowled back at him.

G’raha held his gaze, unflinching.

After a long moment, Emet-Selch broke first: he rolled his eyes and turned away, shoulders strung with tension. Despite this, his voice was flippant. “It is peculiar. Enough so that I have the curiosity for a few theories of my own. I’ll share them once they’re palatable for substantive debate.”

“You’d better,” Cahsi muttered, ears flicking back. Next to her, Ardbert crossed his arms with a scowl of his own, but held his peace.

Feeling somewhat caught between them, G’raha brushed imaginary dust from his vest, cleared his throat, and took charge with a firm, “Well! Let us all begin our contributions to such research by continuing our survey of this place, hm? Where were we headed-- Tiamat?”

Cahsi sighed, but shook off her residual distaste to say, “If her sorrow hasn’t lightened, I don’t imagine she’d want us to disturb her. Actually, there’s this strange facility at the Flagship’s bow…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! :D as always, join me at twitter ([peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff/)) if you like.


	3. Chapter 3

Where Ala Mhigo struggled with external pressures, Doma had needed to purge itself of root-deep corruption from the inside.

Two decades prior, a military coup toppled Hien’s family from power and dropped the nation into a vicious civil war. Only recently had he destroyed his palace, metaphor of corrupted power it was, and in the same stroke regained the throne at substantive cost. As before, Yotsuyu had risen to uncontested power; and as before, so she too fell. The same primals came to being, and the same were defeated.

If anyone asked Cahsi, the parallels were a bit spooky. It was almost enough to get a person to start believing in fate, or at least so-called _natural tendencies._

Almost.

Hien had asked, after her group had arrived at the Doman Enclave’s doors, and settled in from their long journey. Unfortunately (because Hien wouldn’t have minded the back-up considering what he had to hear), Yugiri excused herself early from their group to attend to a mission planned long before Cahsi’s return. As Cahsi had allegedly provided for her confidantes in other nations, he too heard out their tales regarding the ‘original Source,’ and their trip through the First, and everything in between. There was a lot in between. Within it, he learned the Garlean in their midst was not in fact a Garlean, though the non-Garlean refused to demonstrate what exactly that meant beyond giving his word. He learned too that the red-haired miqo’te was slowly becoming one with an all-powerful structure known as Syrcus Tower. While Hien didn’t fight accepting those things (Cahsi certainly attracted enough interesting company for him to be somewhat used to the unbelievable) Amaurot only began to make the slightest bit of sense _after_ the second shared bottle of sake.

Eventually they ran out of reports to swap, at least insofar as they could handle throughout the course of one evening. By then, Cahsi had requested that the Garlean instruct her in the same magics he’d apparently taught G’raha, whereupon something resembling a challenge related to a woman named ‘Fandaniel’ had been uttered in response, and so the request grew into a demand. G’raha was obviously fascinated by the exchange, and watched keenly as Emet-Selch summoned a bit of ice above his hand and offered it for Cahsi’s inspection and, apparently, _magical merging_ , whatever that meant.

It definitively proved he wasn’t a Garlean, at least.

While those three were so engaged, Hien noticed that the First’s Warrior who’d been introduced as Ardbert had a funny look on his face, and wouldn’t stop casting such looks his way.

“Are you as confused by their aetherial dealings as I?” He finally asked him to breach the silence between them, keeping a warm smile on his face.

At first, Ardbert didn’t respond, instead merely staring back at him, as if startled that he was being addressed. As he seemed on the quieter side and more prone to fading out of the conversation, Hien didn’t take it personally.

Finally, he shook himself out of whatever surprise had gripped him and jerked a thumb at the others. “Those three? All the time. You’d think they were speaking another language.”

“I’m fairly certain they are.”

“Yeah, probably.” 

“If I may be so forward...” Ardbert waved him on, but really, he only would be so bold because he could blame it on the alcohol, even though it had hardly done more than make him feel a bit warm. Speaking of, as Ardbert’s cup looked low, Hien moved to fill it. “You looked a little surprised to see me.”

Taking the cup with a nod of thanks, Ardbert looked somewhat contrite at that, but not too much. He admitted fairly easily, “Cahsi talked a lot about you.”

Hah! Did she? 

…

Oh. 

_Did she,_ now.

That was startlingly good to hear. 

He kept his tone light. “I hope I don’t disappoint?”

“I don’t really know you yet,” Ardbert replied, blunt and honest, “but I don’t think so. You’ve got good taste in food and drink, at least.”

The sentiment reminded him vaguely of Cahsi’s first impression of him. She’d definitely said something similar. And so he replied, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Good.” Ardbert nodded, as if that was that. It probably was. Warriors of Light certainly were the straight-forward types. It was a great quality. Then, after Ardbert glanced over to confirm the magically-inclined trio were still at their strange games, he looked back to Hien and asked, “You’re versed with bladed weaponry, right? Do you have a preference?”

Absolutely, he did. The sword was a tried and true companion for any competent fighter. He was only half-joking when he said as much.

And thus was how the two of them fell into discussing the relative positives and negatives between one-sided vand two-sided axes, and, as a natural consequence, broadswords and katanas, which was a conversation that grew just as heated as the one between mages.

In other words, it ran late into the night. When an arm-wrestling contest broke out on one side of the table, the other had a frightful brush with an early, easily-melted frost, as -- _allegedly_ \-- Cahsi’s control slipped such that even Emet-Selch couldn’t stem the burst.

**. . .**

As Cahsi had a meeting to conduct on Tataru’s behalf with Kugane’s business district, she and Hien departed the next day for the city. On their return, the two seemed closer than ever. An implication and question existed between them in G’raha’s mind until the morning of their third day in Doma, whereupon he and Ardbert -- who had taken an early breakfast, Ardbert due to restlessness and G’raha due to sleeplessness -- witnessed Cahsi not-so-subtly sneaking out of Hien’s bedroom and across the courtyard to her own room, her hair a mess and her clothing buttoned asymmetrically.

That definitely answered the question. 

_That’s a bit surprising,_ G’raha said aloud.

 _A bit_ , Ardbert agreed, _but then, I’ve been told I’m pretty bad at noticing these things._

 _Me too,_ G’raha admitted, resolutely focusing his mind and eyes on his breakfast plate. _He seems the decent sort._

Ardbert raised his juice cup in an imaginary toast: to them, their obliviousness, and Cahsi’s comparative success.

She acted so cheery the next few days, it was hard to be anything but happy for her.

Even Emet-Selch had lingered with them more than not, to G’raha’s surprise. Though, that lingering often involved him observing things in silence from a suspiciously shadowy corner that couldn’t _possibly_ have been as shadowy before being introduced to Emet-Selch’s presence. 

They intended to linger for the full week, but on the fifth day, G’raha returned from his nightly stay at the Tower with a letter from the Rising Stones bidding their swift return. It turned out a week pushed his limits while three days marked the beginnings of his supernatural exhaustion, and so, while he certainly pushed the three day marker, he tried not to cross it. It worked out in their favor, as the letter would have taken much longer by post. Though the letter did not plainly state, Cahsi gathered from it and G’raha that Azys Lla’s eikons were of serious concern to Krile as well as the others, and they wished to look post-haste into the Warring Triad. In a related vein, travel to the Thirteenth had been confirmed to occur intentionally by above-average adventurers no less than a dozen times in the most recent century, though less than half ever managed to return. Just as they hoped to investigate the Warring Triad, they also hoped to make plans to travel without use of the Tower to, if not first the Thirteenth, then _some_ Shard.

To do so, they would likely need Cid nan Garlond’s expertise. G’raha had volunteered their merry band, plus an Alphinaud who wouldn’t take no for an answer, to travel there and fetch him in person. The Burn was as difficult to traverse and reach as it had been in the original Source, and so preparations for _that_ journey would need to begin post-haste as well.

All in all, they needed to get back sooner than later. 

Cahsi made all due apologies to Hien. Seeing the reluctance on her face to leave early, G’raha carefully excused himself, Ardbert and Emet-Selch from the room while assuring her that there wasn’t an _immediate_ need to rush. An extra bell or two wouldn’t change the eikons' status.

In the courtyard, the three of them loitered awkwardly. Or, at least, it was awkward in G’raha’s head. 

He hadn’t been alone with Emet-Selch since the Pappus Tree. He sort of wanted to at the same time as he kind of didn’t want to.

Just as he looked over to Emet-Selch and suffered a stab of the conflicting emotions, he gave himself a hard mental shake. Watching how Cahsi behaved around Hien had obviously led him to thinking too much on absurd topics.

Even if _here_ he wasn’t the Exarch per se, and even if here he was accompanied by those who knew him in full, and sometimes called him G’raha, and… Even despite all of that, what future he could reasonably expect to have did not very well allow for intimacies. With anyone. That was an old truth. It remained true.

“G’raha?” Ardbert asked, out of nowhere.

“Hm?” He replied.

“You… feeling alright?”

G’raha blinked at him. “Yes, of course. I’m doing very well.”

Ardbert opened and closed his mouth. Scratched at his chin. And finally, somehow resigned to G’raha’s answer, said, “Alright.”

Although that was an odd thing to ask while they were just standing around, G’raha didn’t feel much like following up on what Ardbert meant. Instead, his thoughts drifted back to their well-trodden paths regarding his enduring need to manage his expectations. It wasn’t a nice line of thought, but it had, unfortunately, proven necessary.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t inquired after the Bökh style of wrestling.”

Emet-Selch’s voice, near and directed at him as it obviously was, startled G’raha back into the present.

As expected, Emet-Selch stared right at him. He was to G’raha’s left, his arms folded and a light frown on his face.

G’raha wracked his brain for what the Ascian could possibly be referring to, but came up blank. Wrestling? What did wrestling have to do with anything?

“What’s that?” Ardbert asked, interest instantly and obviously caught. 

“A traditional Steppe sport.” Emet-Selch’s eyes remained on G’raha, though he angled his face toward Ardbert. “Would you like to hear about it? Before you answer, no, I will not participate-- it isn’t to my taste in the least-- but I know enough to instruct.”

At Emet-Selch’s odd behavior, Ardbert’s brow furrowed slightly, his eyes darting between the two of them. But then a realization seemed to strike him, and he straightened a touch. 

“Sure. Takes two, does it?”

“At the least.”

“Right. G’raha, you can hold your own, can’t you?”

“... I’ve some training in sword and shield,” G’raha answered, hesitant as he tried to find his foothold in this strange conversation.

“That’ll do. I, for one, would love to burn some energy before we’re stuck back underground in Revenant’s Toll.”

Dressed for leisure and comfort, they were not in a state for wrestling. 

But burning energy, even if simply moving through motions taught to them by the orneriest teacher, sounded nice. G’raha stalled for a second longer, but could not resist Ardbert’s beseeching expression. 

For the first time in ages, he wished for his hood. As his vest didn’t have one-- and maybe he’d need to dig up the old Allagan robes he’d repurposed on the first go around, as he did miss their fluidity-- but needing nonetheless to collect himself, he drew in a quick breath, held it, and slowly let it out. 

Then he took a step forward to better turn and face them both, forcing his voice to come out light.

“Well, since it takes at least two... I’ll give it a try.”

At that, Emet-Selch’s eyes finally left him to rove about the courtyard. He clasped his hands together, contemplated what they had to work with, and got to instructing.

Unsurprisingly, he was an incredibly clear, eloquent, and ruthlessly unforgiving teacher.

By the time Cahsi emerged and said she was ready to go, Ardbert and G’raha had streaks of dirt and grass on all sides of their bodies, including their noses and elbows. By Emet-Selch’s count, Ardbert had three pins to G’raha’s two, but, also, they were both disqualified five times over for poor form. This information made Cahsi crack a smile and even a laugh, especially as Ardbert _again_ broke form by wrapping his arms around G’raha’s middle and hefting him like a sack of produce over his shoulder (to prove that forms were unnecessary when he could just pick an opponent up, obviously).

Talk of the sport carried them to Revenant’s Toll in as high of spirits as the swift departure could.

Which was good, as, true to Ardbert’s predictions, they were confined to either the planning table or a chore run. It worked out that their journey to the Burn could safely occur after the Sultana’s banquet, and so they used that as their last respite before, as Krile put it, _once more sallying forth._

**. . .**

Being invited to the Sultana’s banquet, even though it was a near-public affair celebrating the city’s general welfare, brought up a few bad memories for a number of the Scions. G’raha didn’t know the full story, though the poor reaction sparked his memory of a recorded betrayal in Ul’dah during a celebration that led the Warrior to Ishgard, but no two historical accounts agreed as to the details or cause. Still, he gathered enough from Alphinaud’s loud silence, Thancred’s stormy expression, and Y’shtola’s open scorn that he didn’t need to ask. In the end, the latter two declined attendance, but encouraged everyone else to go if they wanted to. Ardbert similarly declined, citing a greater interest in wandering Mor Dhona than attending a ball.

Cahsi emphasized that she understood, but there was no denying that she looked especially out-out by Y’shtola’s absence and, in a similar vein, gave Ardbert one hell of a ribbing about anything and everything before they went.

Ultimately, the rest of them were happy for an easy excuse to meet with old friends and, if they could, pick up more of the world-differences they’d missed, so they accepted the invitations. Even Ryne and Emet-Selch joined, though for very different reasons: one with a vague curiosity of what a lavish party was like in person, rather than merely hearing it happen five floors above one’s silent, locked room; and the other because he had nowhere else to be.

On departure, Thancred gave them the same protective _Look_ he’d given them when Ryne had left his presence to wander an Amaurotine-filled train. G’raha made a mental note to ask for the full, accurate story about Ul’dah from Alphinaud or Cahsi as soon as it became appropriate to do so. 

It certainly wasn’t appropriate _at_ the banquet. G’raha hadn’t been sure what he’d expected. Yes, he’d dug up the robes from the Tower’s rooms that had become his daily garb as the Exarch, though he’d had to spend a few hasty hours mending moth-bitten holes and buffing the metal bits, but he hadn’t really expected… Well, he hadn’t expected anything, really, he’d just gone with it because everyone else was going. And now he was here, at an Ul’dahn banquet thrown by the Sultana herself, surrounded by a culture he barely remembered and in truth knew more about from books than personal experience, and it all came together to remind him of why he’d stopped visiting Eulmore unless diplomatically necessary even before Vauthry’s rise to tyrannical mayordom.

Not that Ul’dah matched Eulmore’s hedonism by any stretch. Oh, they tried. By how the nobility dropped names and discussed the health of their boundless wealth, they tried very hard. But Eulmore had the underlying desperation of the nihilistic isolated from the rest of the world, including the majority of its own populace, by necessity. In contrast, Ul’dah made its profits _because_ the rich preyed upon the opportunities and misfortunes of those around them. Consequently, they understood very well the poor’s woes-- they just didn’t care.

The Sultana did. It surprised G’raha to speak with her (brief and secondary though it was, her approach due mostly to Cahsi and Alphinaud’s presence and quick as her attention was demanded by others) and how he, by her second sentence, understood the depth of how much she felt for _all_ her people.

But, as with any single individual, there was only so much she could do. Just as it had been with the Crystarium when those infected by the Light arrived at their gates, and they’d only been able to offer them either a quiet room and a fatal draught or a map that led to the Inn at Journey’s Head. Or even worse, during the early years before agriculture had caught up with the unrelenting Light, and food shortages demanded they limit their town’s population to numbers already accounted for.

“G’raha?”

The Sultana had disappeared back into the crowd. G’raha blinked, startled to find Alphinaud at his elbow-- and using _that_ name, too. When had that started? Perhaps he took his cue from Cahsi...

“Yes?”

He had a slight smile as he motioned to the well-dressed Roegadyn that G’raha could not for the life of him remember the name of. He knew she’d told him because he’d thought, _That’s pretty different from the average Galdjent’s_ , and then silently struggled to remember what term the Source used for Galdjent. He’d just remembered as they’d been chatting when the Sultana had walked up. 

Alphinaud said, “This young lady asked if you would like to dance.” 

Alphinaud had all the makings of a fine diplomat.

G’raha wished he himself were a bit better of one, so he might decline without hurting any feelings. 

As inconspicuously as possible, he glanced toward the dance floor and tried to match the steps to the swaying, _one-two-three_ metered music. The music, a waltz, was easy enough to identify. The dance, not so much.

It seemed vaguely familiar, though. Had he once known it? The dances in the Crystarium tended toward the much more lively and close-quartered, with little room left between the pairs...

“I’m afraid I’d step on your toes, my lady,” he demurred, flashing the Roegadyn a sheepish smile. “I’m not too familiar with this waltz.”

She waved off his concerns. “That’s no trouble at all, my lord. I’d be happy to instruct you.”

Was that right. Great. “That’s very generous of you,” he allowed, resisting the urge to fidget with his sleeve hem. He wore gloves that more than covered his arms, but in a dance, it’d be hard not to notice the difference between his flesh and crystal hands-- if she was startled or, worse, disgusted, that would be very embarrassing-- wicked white, what if she asked him if it was _contagious_! His people at the Crystarium knew it wasn’t, but she wouldn’t--

Cahsi gave him a pat on the shoulder, breaking his mind’s spiral into all the ways a dance could go wrong. “Very generous, indeed! Go on, G’raha, have some fun. While they do, Alphinaud, would you allow _me_ a dance?”

“Me?” Alphinaud sputtered. “Actually, funny you say that, as I was thinking about getting more of those popot--”

“-- Nope, no running! Your wall-clinging days are well over.” She snagged his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor, grinning all the while. 

It was obviously infectious, as Alphinaud grinned too by the time they reached the edge and Cahsi, after a highly exaggerated, comedic curtsy, daintily took his hand and immediately swung him into a twirl. It was entirely off-rhythm to the dancers around them and drew a few open stares, which both seemed to enjoy immensely. 

He vaguely wondered why she’d focused on Alphinaud rather than him, but it was a vague, easily-crushed thought. A large part of him knew the answer, and knew it was for the best.

“If you don’t want to,” the Roe said in a low, kind aside to him, perhaps noticing how he watched them, “that’s really fine.”

He hesitated further, his nerves alight. At least the Roe hadn’t commented on how he looked at the Warrior…

…

That thought, more than anything, made him say, “I truly can promise nothing about my two left feet.”

She laughed. It was a pleasant sound. “That you’re warning me now sets you above most of the men here,” she said, and offered him her hand. 

He took it.

He didn’t necessarily regret it, though learning the dance as he went resulted in the promised toe-stepping and more than a few bumps into other dancers. Despite his worries, she did not comment on the solid and cold quality of his right hand. Eventually he mastered the basic steps, at which point she traded him off to another Roe, who was a friend of hers; from her he bumped into and transferred then to Ryne, who was extremely enthusiastic about dancing and giggled every time he twirled her, even if he did it in the wrong direction or too forcefully; and then they were joined by a lalafell who thought their energy fun and who taught them both the _proper_ way to dip, or so he claimed. 

_Then_ Ryne abandoned him for Alphinaud, who looked much more confident about his dancing after surviving Cahsi’s shenanigans. While G’raha searched for the hall’s exit, another miqo’te approached him and, after trading pleasantries, invited him to yet more dancing. He didn’t know how to say no on the fly, so he accepted. 

It went well. She was warm, and friendly, and an incredibly good dancer. 

She also had short, light hair, like the Warrior of Light’s, and was a Keeper, like the Warrior of Light. She was a Twin Adders lieutenant from Gridania. She was very forward, and blunt, but in a good way.

She made him feel-- uncomfortable. She reminded him of who he _wasn’t_ dancing with, and it was… 

Unpleasant.

At the end of the dance, she asked him out for drinks. Seizing the opportunity to escape, he declined, claimed exhaustion and, after she gave him a bafflingly knowing smile and bow, all but ran from the dance hall.

Through no fault of his dance partners, he did feel exhausted. Unlike what he was used to at the Crystarium, the waltz allowed the breath and space for much talking. Unfortunately, G’raha’s extremely Warrior of Light- and Allagan-focused knowledge of the Source and century-old memories of local culture meant he made for quite the poor conversationalist.

Though some part of him wished to seek out his friends, he craved fresh air more. Guessing at the palace’s layout based on how the crowd thinned, he went for where a lesser garden should be.

He found a balcony overlooking an interior courtyard, which was close enough. 

On the balcony, as befitted his apparent attachment to leaning on lonely railings, stood Emet-Selch. He had his hands clasped over the railing’s edge, his head tilted back and eyes fixated on the full moon.

Freezing at the sight, G’raha’s foot hovered mid-air as he took in the scene. Once it registered, and after only a little deliberating, he set it down and continued slowly forward.

The music from the dance hall reached them as a muffled, drifting melody. The night’s slight breeze ruffled the greenery below, the quiet rustling crisp and present.

He stopped at Emet-Selch’s side and busied himself with taking in the courtyard. At immediate glance, only a few couples lingered within its green-hedged alcoves, and of those, all were too distracted with their significant other to look up. 

To G’raha’s right, Emet-Selch broke his star-gazing to look at his new companion.

“Have you given in so soon? The night is still young.”

Knowing full well the irony of his statement, he nonetheless replied, “But I am not. I’d rather have departed a bell ago, truth be told.”

“And do what? Return to the Tower to dust your bookshelves and equally dusty tomes?”

“It’s a necessary chore, lest I open the book and start sneezing so much that I can’t hold it steady enough to read. -- Have you been out here this whole time?”

“No. I took my leave only once the dancing began in earnest.”

“That’s most of the time.”

“But not the whole time.”

“Might as well have been.”

“ _Technicalities._ My, you are grouchy. I take it the dancing did not go well?” Emet-Selch turned to half-face him, leaning heavier on one of his arms as his other hand set against his hip.

G’raha hunched. “The dancing went fine.”

“Have you two left feet? I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I dance just fine, thank you,” G’raha replied immediately, bristling in reflex. He was decent as long as he knew the steps! Even if it took a while for him to learn, and he couldn’t remember when -- aside from this night -- he had actually deigned to learn. Moreover, “Why would you assume that, anyway?”

Emet-Selch waved his hand in a wide circle as if to encompass all of him. “You look uncomfortable in your own skin every second of every day, especially when at risk for the apparently horrendous act of someone touching you for a purpose other than training. It’s exhausting to watch, and very unproductive for good dance technique.”

“And you’re some dance master?” G’raha grumbled back, pride stung at the callous observations. He was fine with his looks. Anyone in his shoes would need time to adjust to crystal taking over their body. Emet-Selch didn’t know what he was talking about. “Why are you lurking out here, then?”

“The crowd within are much more tolerable after they’ve loosened their inhibitions. At least, they tend to talk less.” G’raha wasn’t too sure about that. “And, I find the Ul’dahn ballroom waltz grows old very quickly.”

“We can agree on that, at least.” A beat. He admitted, somewhat reluctantly, “I hadn’t expected to be… so surprised.”

Emet-Selch raised an eyebrow. For him, that was as good as _I’m listening, go on._

After a moment, he did. “I know I’ve seen these dances performed before. It’s just been-- a while, and I hadn’t expected them to vary so much from the First’s. And the _conversations._ People kept mentioning this merchant or that goldsmith, or this monument and that fantastic spot for fishing, and I...”

“Didn’t recognize any of it?” Emet-Selch supplied, voice neutral but quieter than before.

G’raha slid his arms forward to hang more over the railing, blowing out a tight, controlled exhale. “Not a single word.”

Silence.

What was there to say? It was incredible G’raha had managed to tell the whole story without choking on the irony of who he told it to. If anyone were to understand, it would be Emet-Selch. And if anyone were to be utterly unsympathetic -- with very good reason -- it would also be Emet-Selch. Unbidden, G’raha’s mind brought up how Emet-Selch had lingered at the outskirts of his fellows’ party during Amaurot’s festival, and how he seemed to refuse to join in the games or jubilation. 

He’d thought it strange at the time, but now, he thought he might understand.

To his surprise, Emet-Selch did not simply walk off. Instead, he asked, tone aloof without being dismissive, “What manner of dance was the Crystarium fond of?”

“It was,” G’raha put his hand to his chin, resisted in reflex the urge to rub at his head, realized he didn’t need to worry about a hood, and did so, running his hand through his bangs, “much faster. Similar to the tango.”

Emet-Selch stuck out a hand, palm upturned. G’raha straightened from his slouch, blinking at it. 

He said, “Show me, then.”

Baulking, G’raha flicked his gaze up to meet Emet-Selch’s. “Show you?”

“You do know the steps, correct?” Up again went that inquisitive eyebrow, this time in challenge. “I’ll even forgive your two left feet.”

“I haven’t two left feet,” G’raha replied, his stomped-on pride rising to the challenge if nothing else, “and yes, I know the steps. I just think--”

“Quit thinking and show me the dance,” Emet-Selch insisted, hand jutting out again, more forcefully.

His immediate impulse split equally between either slapping it or taking it. In the interest of peace and a _bit_ of secret glee at having something to one-up Emet-Selch at, assuming he didn’t know the dance, he chose to take it.

Figuring himself the teacher, he took the lead. Emet-Selch didn’t protest. As with the first Roe he danced with, the height difference poised an interesting challenge to the spins and slight dips. Fortunately, her lessons translated well to dancing with a Garlean, though Emet-Selch’s garb boasted far more belts and buckles, his waist was more narrow, and his chest more-- flat. 

The latter meant G’raha spent far less time jumping mental hoops in figuring out where he was allowed to look or if he could lean in, at least, which was good, as the tango had his top half flush with Emet-Selch more often than not. 

In his mind flashed the words of his old instructor. A larger-than-life sort of woman, she’d insisted that he learn the dance properly before the Crystarium hosted its first full festival: _quit your prancing and your shying about, my good sir! They will mistake you for a gremlin with how much you hop. Go on, get in there, don’t be afraid; she’s certainly wicked, but no sin eater._

The movements were relatively easy to pick up even without the right musical beat. Infuriatingly, Emet-Selch mastered its basic steps by the third go. G’raha threw in the more complicated twists and turns, including a fancy bit of footwork that had taken _him_ more than a day’s worth of practice to simply remember, and even that, Emet-Selch sailed through as a sleek boat over still water.

“I take it back,” Emet-Selch said at the end, and G’raha braced himself for something obnoxious, “you’re a fine dancer,” which of course was when G’raha stumbled and kicked him in the shin on the next step. 

Chest-to-chest as they were, he felt Emet-Selch’s wince. He corrected himself, “Sometimes. When not startled. A shame you’re as jumpy as an alley cat.”

Thus annoyed, G’raha tried to drop his hands from Emet-Selch’s hold and back and gain some distance, but Emet-Selch tightened his grip and refused to let him take more than one step back.

Feeling caught, G’raha said, voice low, “Let go.”

Emet-Selch did. 

Surprised by the easy compliance, G’raha hesitated where he was, suddenly unsure.

The two regarded each other in silence for one moment, then another. 

When neither of them made to step away, G’raha felt an impulse rise that he knew would be better to resist. And yet, it took hold; and so, slowly, he again stepped forward and raised his hands back to their place. Then it was Emet-Selch’s turn to blink in shock, though he quickly resumed his own position.

Emet-Selch said, “I had no idea you’d stumble over a compliment.”

“Was it?” At Emet-Selch’s confused silence-- for though his face was difficult to see, what with G’raha’s head being at the lower end of chest-level, he could hear how Emet-Selch’s brow furrowed-- G’raha repeated, “Was it a compliment?”

“Is your self-regard that poor?” In that, he heard the scowl.

“It’s more a reflection upon my conversational partner’s lack of any regard,” G’raha muttered back.

“... Be that as it may,” as they again began to move through the most basic steps, slower than before for their speaking, “I meant it.”

Hm.

“You’re frustratingly good,” G’raha added after a prolonged pause wherein they completed the simple circuit twice. The dance hall’s music had changed to a softer melody. Though G’raha couldn’t name what the new song was, it certainly encouraged him to not move too fast.

“Practice does, in certain things, make perfect,” was his simple reply. “And I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“Did the Amaurotines dance?” G’raha asked, suddenly realizing that for the variety of celebration they’d witnessed on the festival day, he hadn’t seen anything he would call coordinated dancing. Cheering and general jubilation, yes, but nothing with a replicable beat and step.

“In word and heart, certainly,” and with another circuit done, Emet-Selch swapped their grip and nudged G’raha into following _his_ lead, which G’raha couldn’t find reason to protest and so allowed, “but not in the physical. The body would have been considered too restrictive a medium for the associated emotions.”

“I see.”

G’raha waited for Emet-Selch to make a quip about how he couldn’t possibly _see_ , but he didn’t. Instead Emet-Selch hummed in acknowledgement and thereafter lapsed back into a silence, complete save for their shoes against the balcony tile and the gentle pluck of a distant harp.

And so a fourth and fifth circuit passed, and then a sixth and seventh, their steps naturally slowing until the dance was more an excuse to sway around the balcony than anything that really resembled a dance. From the night’s activity, G’raha actually found himself reaching a point of impending exhaustion: his movements grew sluggish, his head heavy and his thoughts put foremost to fighting the urge to yawn.

When he finally couldn’t fight it, he had to take his hand from Emet-Selch’s waist to cover his mouth. 

Emet-Selch immediately quipped, “Am I boring you?” except it was on the wrong side of neutral for him. Instead, it was positively positive.

“No, no,” G’raha huffed a laugh, “I just think I’m actually getting tired. Considering how high the moon has climbed, I’m surprised we haven’t left yet.”

After two more dragging steps, Emet-Selch stopped their slow circle around the balcony. He dropped his hand from G’raha’s, then lightly settled both of his hands on his waist. He hummed another low acknowledgement, the slight vibration pleasant against G’raha’s ear. Even in the night’s chill and through his multilayered, Garlean-style outfit, Emet-Selch radiated heat. 

Hidden against Emet-Selch’s lapel, G’raha’s eyes snapped open. He was abruptly _very_ aware of their close proximity.

Oblivious to G’raha’s lightning-bolt of panic, Emet-Selch mused, “I assume they either don’t know where you are and are still searching in the wrong places, or have decided to indulge themselves in a few bad choices.”

“Aren’t you tired?” G’raha asked, desperate for some distraction from how he really didn’t mind where he was, because once he thought too much about it he would definitely need to regain his space. -- Then, as a foggy memory rose, though he wasn’t even sure if it was real or part of a dream: “Have you even been sleeping, recently?”

“You caught that, did you?” Emet-Selch murmured, voice distracted as well. “And remember it still. Well done, Exarch.”

“Somehow. Despite how it gave me a terrible headache and knocked me out for hours after.”

“That was by my design, I’m afraid.” G’raha tensed. One of Emet-Selch’s hands, apparently in reflex, stroked along his side. It was probably supposed to be soothing. It just made him tenser, though not for the reason G’raha expected. “A sleeping spell to save your mind from unintentional oversharing. The distance and difference in,” a beat, “ _capacity_ ,” another beat, as he undoubtedly struggled not to make that more insulting than it inherently was (true though it also was), “made controlling our connection a little difficult.”

“You should teach me what you did,” G’raha said. “Sometime. Not here. Obviously.”

Another pause.

“I intend to,” Emet-Selch said, one of his hands settling tighter against G’raha’s waist while the other slipped up to cradle his back, “if you are willing to learn.”

“I am.”

“Good.” More a rumble than a word. Against his upper back, he felt Emet-Selch’s thumb move in a slow, circular caress.

G’raha felt-- warm. And dry-mouthed. And uncomfortable. Extremely uncomfortable. Exceedingly uncomfortable. Awkward, actually, was the better term. He didn’t know what to do with his arms, which had fallen limp at his sides but now felt in need of relocating to somewhere on Emet-Selch.

He also very much didn’t want to move.

Based on the ensuing silence, G’raha knew he wasn’t getting more about the no-sleeping thing. He could press, but the moment didn’t call for it.

Instead, he fished about in his head for a different topic he hadn’t an answer for. Mostly, though, he leaned against Emet-Selch and tried to figure out what to do with his hands. 

Emet-Selch took it out of his hands, so to speak, when he murmured, “If your friends are looking for you, they’re likely worried.”

“They may be more worried to realize they haven’t seen you in an age,” G’raha joked, though his voice sounded weak even to his own ears. His mouth was just so dry.

“Either way, it sounds as if we had best rejoin the party.”

Indeed.

“Were you really out here just to avoid the nobility?” They could be overwhelming in the worst way. 

“Originally, yes,” with an amused lightness to his tone; and then, more serious, “but then I noticed how brilliantly the moon shone, and found myself lost in memory.”

Though he tried to puzzle out what significance the moon had, he couldn’t. Dalamud, maybe, but the only moon currently in the sky was the white, round, natural one. Finally he asked, keeping his voice low to match the other’s tone, “Memory of what?”

“Of who,” he was gently corrected. “First, Elidibus. Then, Lahabrea.”

_Ah._

Realizing, G’raha remained quiet.

After a pause, Emet-Selch continued, his voice wandering to the wretched side of musing, “I haven’t visited to confirm that no trace of our joint existence remains, but I don’t need to, do I? We shared a connection older than Zodiark. I would know how to find them if they could be found.”

G’raha figured out what to do with his arms then. He raised them, slid them around Emet-Selch’s middle, and squeezed. 

When the hug lingered longer than a mere two seconds, it was finally Emet-Selch’s turn to tense up, his hands stilling where they lay. Just as he did, G’raha let go and pulled back. 

Carefully, he tipped his head back to meet Emet-Selch’s gaze. The moon’s light lingered more brightly than usual in golden eyes round with fresh grief. Blue-white edged the harsh contours of his face, his jaw tight and mouth pressed into a thin line. No tears would fall, though the turmoil underneath clearly warranted some. Likely, it always would. G’raha knew his own always would, at least. It didn’t matter that life was better off with or without their presence. The ghosts lingered at the shoulders of the living.

“Let us return to the group, hm?” Emet-Selch bid, words light enough to float away on the next breeze. “It’s getting late.”

For lack of another way-- there was no finding the lost-- G’raha nodded.

**. .̶̛̄̅̎͛͘ ̷͐͂͑̕ ,̸.̶͘ ̷͐͂͑̄͌̄̕ . ,̸̙̮̘̮̖͛͋͌̔̀ .**

The ball was exactly as they left it, if a bit less crowded and much less focused on the politics. As they’d gathered from the balcony, the music had turned slow and intimate.

Despite the late hour, none of the Scions in attendance were especially raring to leave. The twins and Ryne sat to the room’s side quietly talking amongst themselves, with Ryne half-asleep on Alisaie’s shoulder. Cahsi and Urianger sat drinking with General Raubahn, a white-haired Roe woman that G’raha knew to be very important but couldn’t name, and the Sultana. Aymeric had been unable to escape his official duties and attend, apparently, or G’raha would imagine he’d be there, too. The other patrons milled about, a few slow-dancing, a few others sitting and chatting. A few entrepreneurial types lingered closer than was appropriate to the Sultana’s table, but by Alphinuad’s absence and the open smile on Cahsi’s face-- which she never had when discussing governance matters-- they weren’t likely to pick up anything particularly relevant to the political climate.

All the same, G’raha deliberated whether he wanted to join Cahsi’s group. The twins were far less likely to ask about the Crystarium, or Norvrandt, or…

A hand settled, light, on his upper back.

G’raha looked up to Emet-Selch, who leaned in close.

“No broken chandeliers or accidental fires set to nosy maidens’ dresses. The Sultana truly _did_ curate her guest list of the ruffians, didn’t she,” he whispered, insomuch as he ever whispered; his breath tickled G’raha’s ear, made it flick in-- annoyance, certainly, though then he became aware that it made the rest of him feel shivery, too. “I’ll show myself out, but if they insist on my presence upon our departure, you know how to find me.”

“Do I?” 

Privately, G’raha marveled that he kept his voice so steady.

Amusement colored Emet-Selch’s voice. “Just give a call. I’ll be listening.”

They hadn’t linkpearls, so he meant a call-- oh. The aether-to-aether call. Well. He could do that. Why did Emet-Selch have to say it in such a way as to make him think it meant more than…? 

\-- He was thinking too much into it. It was just a convenient way to get his attention. It probably matched something Amaurotines had done, if Emet-Selch invited it. There was nothing weird about that.

In any case, it was too late to ask, as the Ascian took his leave. Watching him go, G’raha realized Cahsi, at least, had seen the exchange, because she was staring very determinedly at her drink in a way he knew meant she _had_ been looking. Emet-Selch himself walked straight past Cahsi’s table, ignoring the way her eyes very obviously snapped to and followed him (or how Urianger neatly distracted the other speakers from asking too much about who Cahsi narrowed her eyes at). 

Emet-Selch meandered through the sparse groups with an ease G’raha envied. Considering his continued general disdain for the Sundered, he should have had the presence of a shark among fishes; but, as befitted his long history of camouflaging himself among their number, he drew no more attention than he intended. Once he reached the official bar at the other side of the room, he ordered a glass of something red and thereupon, without missing a beat, struck up a conversation with the miqo’te to his left. She was, G’raha couldn’t help but notice, the same miqo’te who had invited _him_ to drinks after their dance.

Huh.

Before they began chatting in earnest, she gestured in G’raha’s general direction with a smile. Expression vaguely interested, Emet-Selch glanced the same way, met his eyes, and replied to her without looking back. Whatever he said surprised her-- but also, apparently, encouraged her to lean just a bit farther into his space, her body angled toward him.

Emet-Selch’s gaze lingered a moment longer on G’raha’s, but then he, too, turned himself toward her, his smile faint and, in its shadows, mocking. Toward what or who, G’raha didn’t know.

Deciding he’d seen enough lest he see _too_ much, G’raha made for where the twins and Ryne sat, determined to make the most of the rest of the evening. In that vein, he found he didn’t much feel like mentally dancing through a conversation with any leader of any city, and-- he didn’t have to, did he? Here, he was known as, at most, the Warrior of Light’s newest guest.

The irony behind being termed the _newest_ didn’t burn quite as much as he expected. Somewhere along the line, it became more nostalgic than unfortunate.

(That night, Emet-Selch left with the other miqo’te. The others asked no questions upon his re-appearance at Revenant’s Toll the morning after.)

. . .  
  
  
.̷̡̰͍̼̲͚̙͊ ̵̊͗͗͑̽̍̾̚͘͝͠ .̵̓̌͗̿͊  
  
  
. . .  
  
  
. . ỷ̵̺͎̞̭̜̩͖̥̓͒̒̾̄̏͠͠ỏ̸̡̝̫̖̜͔̦̹͎͚͙͜ǔ̸̡̩͍͖̬͓͐̆͐ ̵̥̳̳̺͌̍̍̋͝à̸̢͚̞͉ ̴̨̯̯̄̐̿͊̍̾́̑͒͘͝͠r̵̗̙͚͍͎̖͍̜̰̼̀̄̃̓͑̎̚͠.̵̛̪̗̍̓̇͊̂̕ ̷̬̪͚͔̳̯̙̮͌͋̕͜.̸̳̖͈̗̻̹̣͔̼͉̬̬̗̃̕͝ͅ ̶̞̹͇̼͗͗̔̑̅̓̃.̸̧̢͓̰̭̭̙̖͖͓̜͙ ̷̚ň̷̲̖̩̱̠͚̲̪͈̝͎̺̘̑̎̇̊̽͝ͅ.̷̢̬̖̦͈̺͎̜͉͇̗̤̼͑̃͑̚͜͝͠ͅ ̷̆̕.̴̡͉̣̱̱̱̦̘͊̇͌̉̿ ̷̓͂͗s̶̄̓̄͂ ̸͉̠̓̂̾̐͠ **a̵̛̫͚̟͔̣͖͖̪͇̪̙̾̓͒̾̐̿͒̉̆ ̶̊̄̉̈f̶̛̘̟̲̮̺̦͈͔̠̫̊̉̅͗̔̇̕͜͠ ̶̽̂͛͛e̵̼͈̰̲̩̠̤͚̪̓͛̓̔̀̕͝ͅ** ̷̞͇̯̦̀̆̽̔̒͐̈́̕͘͝ . . . .  
  
  


“...! The greenhouse is-- oh, Exarch, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I hadn’t known you still thought about it...”

“Of course I did! The flowers were gorgeous.”

What greeted Ryne atop the roof was a completely and utterly demolished greenhouse, with no trace of it or the garden around it left beyond ashy smudges on blue crystal. 

She didn’t bemoan not being told about its destruction sooner because it felt like belaboring the point, and also like rubbing salt into a wound. It also seemed especially in poor taste after the Exarch had been so nice as to take her up to the Tower’s roof on an impulsive request during their conversation at the banquet the night before.

All the same, she privately felt very frustrated indeed. How could he have thought not to mention its loss?!

She paced around the rooftop’s edge, which appeared startlingly large when not covered by glowing greenery. The Exarch walked at a more sedate pace behind her, his old robes back on and his staff in hand. As they expected some trouble in the Burn, he’d wanted to pick it up on their visit. 

He said, “They were a little cannibalistic, too. And vicious.”

“That wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know any better.” 

To catch a better look, she crouched at a particularly well-detailed ash-smudge. It bore remarkable resemblance to a huge sunflower. Looking at it, she could just imagine its blue petals.

The Exarch stopped by her side, his staff clinking against the crystal as he set it down. After a too-long pause, he finally admitted, a forlorn sigh in his voice, “It was a disappointment to see them gone. Apparently the jump forward to _now_ had been a little rougher than the trip back had been. I believe it was because the Tower merged with its younger self, as we did; and so as we lost the markers of the intervening years’ wear and tear, the garden too was an unexpected blemish the Tower then healed…”

Blemish? How rude! 

And of course it was a disappointment to lose it! It must have taken ages to grow. It had been beautiful, and a sign of how long the Exarch had waited to help the First, and all that aside, it had been one of the few places in the Tower that had actually felt lived in.

But, she reminded herself, it wasn’t the Exarch’s fault he could barely admit it. Whereas she struggled to recognize loss, he struggled to express it. Which left her to say the things he needed to, and vice versa. That's what friends were for. Alisaie had said as much multiple times.

“Will you replant?” she asked, looking up to him from the sunflower-smudge.

“I don’t think so. Not at the moment, anyway. They took an awful amount of attention in the beginning, and…” He raised his right arm, letting the sleeve fall back to show the comparatively low point where the crystal stopped its spread. “I think I’ll use what time I have regained to its utmost.”

That made sense. Tending the garden might have been a way to personalize the place which eventually became like a prison. When that happened, it really didn’t matter how beautiful or necessary somewhere was. Of course he’d want distance, and to invest in something new. 

She gave him an encouraging smile and nod. Though slight, he returned the smile.

Giving the sunflower-smudge one last look, hoping to commit its now-lost history to memory, she stood. “There’s always something more to do, isn’t there?”

“Always,” he agreed, his smile growing. He, like Thancred, did much better with an immediate problem to work at. She saw the appeal, but personally enjoyed the quieter moments in between -- like the banquet -- a bit more. In point of fact, he continued to add, somewhat nervously, “Since the garden is gone, though, we could return sooner than later to Revenant’s Toll.”

And she replied, without missing a beat, “I’m fine to stay a bit longer if you are, Exarch. I’m sad about the flowers, but I also wanted to come here because it’s so much easier to see the stars from here.”

“Oh.” Unlike the others she’d met in the Source, he understood without further question or comment. Because he understood so well, possibly even more than the other Scions, he said, “Stay as long as you like, then.”

“Thank you.” 

She wandered toward the roof’s edge, her attention split between the starlight and her immediate surroundings. Water flowed around the main platform they stood upon. Its origins made little sense to her, as the rest of the Tower certainly wasn’t flooded with water. Was it melted crystal? Except the crystal was actually aether, so what did that mean for the water; would it crystalize on her if she fell in? -- Regardless, it _was_ pretty with how it glinted in the moonlight. Up close, she could even spot the stars’ reflection, though the full moon’s brightness blotted out most of it. That the night sky changed so much in appearance between one phase of the moon and another was something she found endlessly fascinating, and she was excited to discover what other changes the night sky might be capable of in time, and with the turnover of seasons. 

The Exarch joined her after a while, stopping an arm’s length away. His own eyes were on the sky, expression quietly contemplative.

Companionable silence settled around them, interrupted only by gentle movement of the water about its pool.

“You can call me G’raha, you know,” he said, and she almost jumped.

She looked toward him to figure out where that might have come from, but he kept his eyes fixated upward. And so she said, to make sure she’d heard right, “-- G’raha?”

“I don’t mind.” A beat. Then he glanced toward her, and quickly away again. “If _you_ don’t, I mean. You don’t have to.”

As that was the last impression she wanted to give, she beamed at him. “I’d be happy to, G’raha. _G’raha_... It suits you much better.”

It was true, it felt much more natural. Most of the others had already started calling him that based on their distance from the Crystarium and his growing comfort with being their _friend_ rather than a mysterious stranger, but she hadn’t felt it was right until he said something directly. As they had discussed before, though it seemed like an age ago, she knew what it was like for a name not to fit. Another name didn’t just work out better because others started calling you it-- in that situation, you might as well have stuck with the first title, since it meant about as much as the second. 

“I think it does, too,” he admitted quietly, seemingly embarrassed, one hand scratching at his cheek and slightly hiding his eyes. “Thank you, Ryne. You had been the first to bring it up. I hadn’t forgotten that.”

That made Ryne feel good, too. What a fine night the sunless sea plus from-the-heart names could make. 

In the far back of her mind, Hydaelyn stirred at her spike in happiness. Understanding in an instant its cause, She suffused her with happy encouragement at securing yet another friend, especially one who stood farther in the shadows than expected. Thus enveloped, Ryne’s smile lingered far longer than it otherwise would have. Sentiment thus shared, She retreated again to where She rested in perpetuity. 

Their bond was much stronger on Her Star. In some ways, She felt more powerful. In all ways, She was certainly much more aware of their day-to-day activities. If Ryne thought about it-- and she’d discussed it here and there with the twins as well as Urianger and Thancred, though they didn’t know what to make of it either-- she couldn’t tell if the cause was from physical proximity or from what had changed due to their meddling in the past. 

Whatever the cause, Hydaelyn remained a supportive presence, her investment in their continued progress clear and unequivocal.

 _Progress_ was a strange word for it… Though it did fit the best. When Ryne tried to think about what _progress_ Hydaelyn expected of them, she couldn’t put her finger on it. She just knew it to be good, and right, and tied directly to their world’s continued survival.

Ryne had the feeling G’raha didn’t _hear_ Hydaelyn like she and Cahsi did, but one day, he would. One day, hopefully, everyone would.

**. ..̷̠̽͋ ̷̠͈̂͐.̵͙̪̹̊̄͛ ̵̧̄̈͝ī̸͆͆ͅ ̴̠́w̷͓͖͘i̴̭͂̃ ̸̦͆l̸̫͚͛** ̴̥̱̤̕l̷̼͓̱̈ ̵̲̲͘.̶̱̉̄ ̴͉̖͂̀͜͝.̷̡͔͊̎̉ ̶̣̪̑.̷̖͔̰̂̿͘ . . ̸̯͕̰͚͍̪͈̆̏̇̆̇̊̅.̵͍̹̬̦̌̊̊͐͝ ̴͖͉̇̽̎̔͝.̷̽͋͋̈́̀̚ ̵̘͎̠̯͓͑̒͝ **m̷̛̈́͑̎͒̓͠a̷̠̺̲͍̙̝̓̑̓͆ḳ̷̼͓̹͂̊̈́̿͘͘͝e̶͆͂ ̶̓̈́͌͝ỹ̶o̴̎͒͛͐́̊u̶̧̖̘̜͙͍͚͌̒̄̅͜ ̵͈̥̯͚͓̬͖̫͕̿͑̌̍͐̎̏͐̈̓̓͝͠͝.̵̛̠̭͔̹̥̜̮̺͌͜ ̵̟͇̱͎̄̆̎͊̊̐͝͠.̷͔̹̬̲̐̉͒̏͆̓̓̚͘ ̷̯̲̣̮͎̣̫̥̖̫͕͒̃̿̌̈̑̾̓͋͗͑͘̕͜͝.̵̠͓͍͖̝̥̈͛̽̌̆̌͑͛ ̵̢̩̍̐̽̈̉̀́̈́̔͘͘ͅs̷̡̮͇̙̜͍̗͈̥͂̌̓̽̓͝ͅ** ä̵́́̍͆̿̏̊f̵̦̯̻̭̥̩͍̩͂̆͠ ̶̧̤͙̗͉̐͊̊͝ę̴̬̤̝̮̱̤̳̼́̆̅͑̿̂̀͆̐́̂̚̚͝ͅ ̷̱̂̽̔̋̃͂̎̓̈̚.̶̋ ̷̢̗̺̖͍͈̰̺͍͚̜̒̾͋̔͊̾͛̀̚ .̷̛̆̄̌̈͒͛͝ ̷̧̨̞̼̤͓̌͊̑̽̋̋̈́̋͝͝,̶̨̘̝̮̭̻̄ ̷̟̬̝̓ . .  
  
  
b̴͚͉͖͑͝ę̵̱̹͐l̶̢̛͍̿͝ ̴͙̓̅͜ͅǫ̶̝͉̌ **v̴͓͎̹̏̅e̴͙̪̦͐d̸̳̺̣͗̾** ̴͇̆̾ċ̶͍̣͜r̵̛͇è̶̤̠̃̚ ̷̙͚̥͘.̷̨̤̹̋̅t̶͙͖́͗ ̴̲̄͗ó̵̢̫̾ ̸̭͍̔ȑ̷͎̬̩ ̴̥̫̅.̶̭͕͐ ̴̤̯͙̌͆ . .  
  
  
. .̶͉̍ . . 

**. . .**

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is that plot i smell??
> 
> hmmm
> 
> as always, join me at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter if you like!


	4. Chapter 4

“We’ve worked out that it’s some sort of generator, but it takes a sun’s worth of energy to make anything, so I’m not too sure what it’s meant to be used for.”

“And it just fell from the sky a month ago?”

“Far as anybody can tell, yep.”

“That fits with the theme...”

“Theme?” Cid raised both eyebrows at Alphinaud. “Regarding what, exactly?”

“The stories of other cultures receiving random gifts from unknown sky-benefactors. Like Allag.”

“That’s all ancient rumor and hearsay.” Cid couldn’t believe Alphinaud was even entertaining the idea. “It’s more likely some old King commissioned his engineers to build him something, then had a falling out and decided he didn’t want to give them credit. This, on the other hand, definitely showed up without explanation five weeks ago.”

The boy contemplated the huge, smooth, white box laid out before them. As it was ungodly heavy, they’d dug it out of its half-burial in the Burn’s white sand, dusted it off, and posted up a nice tent around it to keep the suns off their backs while they studied it. Despite their best efforts, research went at a snail’s pace. The idea that it was a generator was based on the faint, small, strange glyphs on its siding, rather than actually getting it to run. 

Cid couldn’t wait to get it going, though. As long as the box didn’t wake up and start talking about planet-wide destruction like certain other alien tech had done, he planned to put it to good use. Just as the Syrcus Tower had been, even though it hadn’t felt like a win at the time, and he had to be told about it after the fact. 

He cast a sideways look to where G’raha Tia, once more in the flesh, idled near the box’s other side. It was, he noticed, the spot with the strange glyphs. The miqo’te stood next to Emet-Selch, which was an odd name for a full bloodied Garlean -- and which was apparently not even a name, but actually a title, and also he wasn’t actually a Garlean at all, and that’s why they hadn’t met before, even though he looked an awful lot like a middle aged version of the Commonwealth’s richest family’s late patriarch, Solus het Galvus. 

When asked, he claimed no relation, though he admitted being told he bore a startling likeness. He said both with one hell of a straight face. 

Based on the number of eye rolls or glares from the Scions around him, Cid guessed there was more to it. Based on his personal experience with a similar sort of deadpan and idiotic humor through Nero, he also guessed he didn’t really want to know. It’d probably end in a headache (which he already had from the idea of the First being Rejoined with the Source. He’d had a theory that the Calamities came from something extra-territorial, but that just felt like overkill!). 

He’d taken their explanations in stride. In truth, the weirder part of the reunion had been having to explain his own origins again. He’d left the Garlemald Commonwealth after his father had involved him in the nation’s more sensitive and secretive projects. Those had, perhaps inevitably, included supplying extensive and deadly weaponry to volatile nations on the edge of either winning or losing a violent conflict with their neighbors. Cid was told the deals kept Garlemald’s economy in good health, and more importantly, set their long-standing southern oppressors to war with one another rather than meddling in Garlemald’s affairs. 

Morality had no place in such cold calculations. And so Cid had appealed to the better senses of those he thought he could, and when that failed, took his then-current projects, and fled.

Unfortunately for his clean get-away but fortunately for his conscience, the items he took included the Heart of Sabik, a critical component for the nearly-completed Ultima Weapon. Thus, Gaius and his team (all experts in national security, in the way that any highly skilled and disciplined group armed to the teeth could be considered such) was sent to retrieve, if not him, then at least the papers he stole.

The chase that followed became an incident that resembled the original Source’s in its widespread destruction and terror. All in all, it should have been a political disaster for Garlemald, but well-timed, highly publicized blame on Gaius’ group for bungling the operation (read: not quietly eliminating Cid nan Garlond or his independent company) kept the nation insulated while those involved were effectively exiled.

Some of them dealt with the news better than others. Cid took it as an opportunity to grow his company in service of others who wanted nothing to do with Garlemald’s shadier business. In contrast, Gaius vowed revenge on those who worked against their nation’s interests by lying to their citizens. He picked up mercenaries who were willing to do the same. Sometimes that included an ex-Ishgardian named Estinien; sometimes that included Nero tol Scaeva; sometimes, it was just him.

The two tended to cross paths more than either expected. For example: when strange alien technology showed up, and both Ironworks and Garlemald had their eye on acquiring it.

Gaius got to patrol the area for Garlemald’s agents, while Cid had some extra muscle and gunblades ensuring he had the time and space to research what he could.

“Do you recognize it?” G’raha asked Emet-Selch. 

“Give me a moment.”

“It’s alright if you don’t.”

“Do you see these dots? That’s the text. As far as I can tell, a chicken scratched it in.”

“Can’t you just zoom in your—“

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

“You were about to ask something ridiculous.”

“So, you can’t zoom in your eyes like binoculars?”

Emet-Selch heaved a long-suffering sigh, and crouched to squint closer at the glyphs. Once his attention was focused on the box, G’raha’s faux-sincere expression dropped for one of quiet victory. 

Next to Cid, Alphinaud politely disguised his laugh as a cough and smothered it into his hand. Cid was just glad he wasn’t the only one watching. 

Alphinaud said, “As we mentioned, Emet-Selch’s an expert.”

“Right,” Cid replied, folding his arms and giving the kid a _don’t mess with me_ glance, “except you didn’t mention what he’s an expert in, or where he learned to be an expert, or why he’d know anything about random alien tech.”

At least Alphinaud had the self-awareness to look vaguely apologetic. “It’s complicated.”

Based on the story about the First and Amaurot and _time travel_ , it probably was. He’d gathered the guy (an Ascian?) had years upon years of experience with various worlds’ worth of technology, including the Allagan Empire’s, but what that had to do with _this_ box--

“It’s definitely a warning label,” the man said with surprised interest, “that includes a startling resemblance to symbols I would have used.”

“Amaurotine symbols, you mean?” Alphinaud asked.

“Just so. Except, even if that origin _was_ possible, the glyphs themselves are different enough that they couldn’t be.” 

Cid jumped in with, “Warning label for what, exactly?” because that seemed much more important for immediate purposes. He’d worked out that one of the symbols had been a flame and another had been for power, but he couldn’t figure out the context. He’d ultimately guessed it needed immense solar power, though he’d have been happy to be proven wrong.

Emet-Selch shrugged, and stood. “The necessary voltage, potential fire and choking hazards, chemical reactibility potentials. The basics.”

“Choking hazards?” Cid echoed. “How would anybody choke on this? It’s the size of a small airship.”

He glanced across the box, then back at Cid. He said, “It’s a matter replicator,” as if that was _obvious._

Cid wanted to take offense, but he was so intrigued, he couldn’t. 

“Walk me through what that means.”

“It’s,” a beat, while his face did something complicated that told Cid he really didn’t want to bother explaining but was forcing himself to, “exactly what it sounds like. It scans an object and duplicates it.” 

“Perfectly?”

“Probably, if it’s not damaged.” Emet-Selch gave the box an appreciative once-over. “It’s incredibly advanced. Beyond even my keel, if I’m honest. I couldn’t guess at how it operates off the cuff, though I have an idea of where to start.”

Sensing the confidence had come from somewhere and happy to figure out how much he deserved his obvious, easy arrogance, Cid immediately moved around the box to join him. “And where’s that?”

“Over there.” 

Emet-Selch gestured to a blank stretch of paneling. Although nothing was visible and he’d traced just about every inch of the damn thing before the Scions and their buddy had shown up, Cid dutifully felt along the indicated area. Just as before, he felt nothing.

“No, not with your--” Emet-Selch blew out another one of those dramatic sighs of his, this time through his nose. He pointed more specifically to a spot above Cid’s hand. “Take off the glove. It won’t register through the cloth. Then lick your thumb and hold it down right there.”

Lick his _thumb?_

“You better not be pulling my leg…” Cid muttered, pulling off his glove despite his apprehension. He didn’t know why he was trusting this guy, except that he’d honestly run out of ideas that didn’t involve hitting it with an electromagnetic pulse. Nero had threatened to do just that if it was still dormant by the end of the week, and Cid had to admit he was reaching the point where he couldn’t come up with a good reason why they shouldn’t. 

He licked his thumb and stuck it in the spot indicated.

Nothing happened.

After three more ticks of nothing happening, he gave Emet-Selch an unimpressed look.

Emet-Selch raised one eyebrow back, then pointedly looked down to the casing.

To their side, Alphinaud gasped and G’raha’s ears perked up in keen interest. 

Cid glanced down, and found glowing green glyphs to be scrolling rapidly across the white surface.

“Those,” Emet-Selch said after they’d taken a fair time to simply stare, his voice full of well-deserved weariness, “appear to be the instructions.” At Cid’s wondering look, he elaborated, “I can only decipher every third word.”

“I’m guessing he can’t stick around here for the next few months?” Cid asked without meaning it to Alphinaud. To Emet-Selch, he all but demanded, “Before you go, please write down every glyph you even _vaguely_ think you recognize. We’ll take it from there.”

“I can do that,” Emet-Selch allowed after a slow, stiff nod. “I’d like your notes thus far, and to be kept updated afterwards.” 

Alphinaud and G’raha both had an expression on their face that, were they anyone else or even less kind people in general, would have been a pleased smirk. Instead, on them, it was just simple approval.

“Deal,” Cid agreed, though he could already hear Jessie complaining about potential rivals stealing their tech and Nero whining about wannabe geniuses stealing _their_ work.

Looking a little more invested by Cid’s easy assent, Emet-Selch nodded again. He then ruined the moment by saying, deadpan, “You can take your thumb off it now, by the way. It turns out that was the scroll bar.”

Cursing under breath, Cid did so. The text stopped scrolling.

Finally.

\-- Wait. _Finally?_

“... How many instructions can one machina need?!”

Oh, this was definitely a jackpot. A matter replicator sounded like it wouldn’t suddenly threaten their dimension with doom and gloom, either. He had to tell Nero _immediately._ And Gaius and his group, actually. They’d likely be here for a while and needed the security in case any of the Burn’s oversized worms came back.

**. . .**

The unusually advanced technology falling from the sky being a trend wasn’t entirely Alphinaud’s imagination, though Urianger wished it was. That would’ve made it easier to track.

What they’d gathered was: unlike with the Ascians’ interference, the technology’s appearance and function both were truly, utterly random. Its involvement with any subsequent Calamity was also tenuous at best. Occasionally throughout history, someone would connect a Shard’s unique technology to that of a recently arrived machina on the Source, but the accounts varied so much as to be virtually useless for discerning a grand purpose. 

Technology just fell to Hydaelyn. Again and again. 

The Scions themselves had gathered in their designated tent (which Alphinaud had a strong feeling someone else had been kicked out for, though there was no telling who) for a late lunch after Alphinaud and the others had finished appraising the newest fallen technology. Cahsi, Ardbert, and Alisaie had taken off to ensure the camp’s borders were as secure as claimed, under the guise of delivering food and water to the sentries-slash-guards-slash-Gaius’-new-lackeys, while Ryne and G’raha made the rounds within the camp to make sure no one had any _particular_ problems with the Scions’ presence. 

Though those remaining at camp hadn’t meant to, the conversation circled around to their latest project: figuring out if they should be worried about the alien tech. 

In their line of business, the answer was probably yes.

“What if we look at it in aggregate?” Y’shtola asked, once Alphinaud had returned to their main tent and reported that the recent technology was a matter replicator. Obviously it had nefarious potential, but after poking around what internal records they could find and understand within its systems, Emet-Selch was convinced that it was primarily used to generate food and drink. “We have confirmed accounts for a gravity-controlling device to the Allagans, an advanced power generator to Garlemald two centuries ago, now a matter replicator for subsistence…”

“‘Subsistence’ makes it sound much more mysterious than it is,” Thancred said. “If Emet-Selch’s right, it’s basically a robotic chef.”

“That’s true. I can’t imagine whatever it makes tasting good.”

“Probably not. I’d give it a go, though.”

“Even if it was rotten or glowing?”

Alphinaud made a barely detectable gagging noise into a closed fist. It sounded like a cough, but his eyes told a different, accusatory story.

With a quick glance toward him, Thancred smirked and leaned forward. “Depending on _how_ rotten or glowing, sure. It would be just like that time Louisoix decided he wanted to try cooking us a special meal. Remember?”

“My grandfather cooked?” Alphinaud’’s eyebrows rose. “Of the many things he could do, I don’t recall that being in his skill set…”

By how her spine straightened and she looked like she was fighting down a laugh, Y’shtola both remembered and agreed with Alphinaud. “You mean when he set out to make a casserole, but used sugar instead of salt, and --”

“Somehow, it turned into this gelatin that I swear moved on its own--”

“-- It smelled _awful_ , and yes, it glowed, if you put it up to the light--”

“But he was so excited, we--”

“-- had to eat the whole thing in one sitting with a straight face, _yes_. Urianger, weren’t you sick for three days afterwards?”

Without looking up from his notebook, Urianger replied evenly, “I have taken great lengths to forget that ‘special meal.’”

Alphinaud looked properly horrified.

“ _In any case,_ ” Krile broke in, though she didn’t look the least bit surprised or upset, which confirmed for Alphinaud that she knew the story very well (although most likely from Louisoix’s point of view, which must have been quite apologetic for his mistake but also probably unsure why his students volunteered so readily to take over meal-prep duties), “we also have a stasis pod in Amdapor, and a navigation device discovered by the Ixali some centuries back. Am I forgetting anything?”

“The cloaking device used by Limsa Lominsa’s naval fleets.” When three of the surrounding Scions opened their mouths to protest, Y’shtola held up a well-timed hand to stop them. “I _know_ there’s dispute as to whether that was a natural progression or not, but I maintain that the cloaking system is beyond what any pirate, even Mistbeard, would have managed alone. Let’s assume it’s included.”

“Very well. The cloaking device too, then.” Krile looked around their group. “In aggregate, that means…?”

Alphinaud turned his gaze skyward in thought. The rest of them all shared glances, but not words. 

After waiting long enough for one of them to speak up if they had any ideas, Krile sighed.

“In aggregate, that means we’re no closer than we were before. I’d really hoped for more than a food-maker to add to our puzzle--”

“An airship.”

Krile cut herself off. Everyone, almost as one, looked toward Alphinaud.

When he merely blinked back with a faint smile, Krile finally prompted, “Pardon?”

“In aggregate, it sounds like parts of an airship.” He held up a hand and ticked off the items. “The cloaking device to travel unnoticed, the replicator for food and drink, the stasis pod for either transport or sleep across long distances. The power generator, navigation and gravity-defying devices are self-explanatory.”

“That’s one advanced airship,” Thancred noted. “No society has the means, even across the Shards.”

“No society right _now_ ,” Alphinaud returned.

“Thy assumption lies with time travel?” Urianger asked, in the tone of someone who very much wanted to add, _Again? Really?_ but was too polite to do so.

“It’s also a lot of conjecture,” Y’shtola said. “We’ve accounted for plenty of individual devices that have the same rough place and time of advanced origin, but no ship-like structure or crew.”

Perhaps imagining how _pieces of crewmembers_ would look hurtling from the sky, Urianger’s nose wrinkled. 

Wincing at the same mental image, Alphinaud nonetheless held his ground. 

“A panel of metal or strange framework discovered in the middle of nowhere would be easy to overlook and explain away. So, those are lost to history. And, because these things _do_ fall from the sky, anything less stable and more, ah, flammable, would likely turn to ash before reaching the ground.”

Y’shtola sat back in her chair, crossing her arms and cocking her head to one side. The tip of her tail flicked as she thought it over.

“... It’s a theory worth considering,” Krile said. Her contemplative tone and expression gave way to a wide, supportive smile when Alphinaud glanced her way. 

“We’ve little else at the moment,” Thancred said. “It wouldn’t hurt to keep it on the table.”

“Unless any gathered here wish to make known their protest,” Urianger said, “I shalt re-approach our records with a traveling vessel in mind.”

Thancred voiced his assent, and Krile soon after him. Y’shtola slowly nodded.

Alphinaud took a tiny moment to mentally celebrate his idea’s reception. 

Then, because that went over well and also sometimes he still _didn’t_ know when to quit, he ventured further, eyes squarely on Urianger (as he guessed him to be the biggest supporter after Krile, who frankly couldn’t fully appreciate what he was proposing): “I think we should involve Emet-Selch in this. Entirely, without holding back like we have been.”

“We've been over this,” Y’shtola cut in, colder than before, “and he’s not a Scion.”

“One might say he’s the opposite of a Scion,” Thancred noted, similarly chilly.

“He’s a great resource,” Alphinaud protested. “And it isn’t like he has anyone else to answer to right now.”

Thancred didn’t sputter, but it was a close thing. “Since when has he _not_ answered to himself? He was, _is_ , a Paragon.”

“Arguably, with Zodiark gone--”

“-- Arguably, you’re inviting an Ascian into our midst.”

“He’s all but in our midst as it is.”

“Alphinaud has a point there,” Krile said, “and from what you’ve all said, our precautions are laughably easy for him to overcome if he wanted to.”

“We’d know if he did,” Y’shtola said, “that’s the important thing.”

“Is it? To what purpose?” Alphinaud asked, finally moving his eyes from Urianger’s, who maintained his watchful silence. “He knows we still regard him with suspicion. As long as that’s true, he has no reason to be forthcoming with us. It’s honestly surprising he’s helped as much as he has.” 

“Considering how much he alone knows about these devices…” Krile murmured, her hands clasped in her lap as her eyes fell to the ground in thought.

Invigorated, Alphinaud continued with, “Think about the long-term. We currently stand against a foe unknown. As the first to make headway into the mystery, _we_ might not solve this puzzle. Those to follow us would benefit greatly from an immortal’s personal knowledge regarding not only the giant hints falling from the sky, but our methods and research, too.”

Even before he finished, Thancred shook his head. “That’s how this game always starts, Alphinaud. We rely on an Ascian’s seemingly innocuous help, thinking we know better, and then, down the line, it bites us in the ass.”

“It’s awfully presumptuous of his intentions as well,” Y’shtola said.

“... Therein rests the key difference.” All eyes turned to Urianger when he finally spoke up. “Though I dare not guess at what manner of thought drives him now, it remains that Emet-Selch hast not followed us out of obligation or cunning. Were we to approach him, I believe he would struggle indeed to spring a trap, as I cannot imagine what goal such action would serve.”

“As if we’ve ever known--” Thancred started, then stopped. 

His teeth clicked as he shut his jaw, his eyes narrowing. 

Urianger held his gaze steadily. Eventually, he gave a light shrug with one shoulder.

“There wouldn’t be harm in asking,” Alphinaud added in the silence to follow, giving voice to Urianger’s shrug. “The worst is he would say yes and then sell us out to… who, exactly? Cahsi? G’raha? To be frank, as far as we know, he doesn’t gather with anyone else. Not to mention our current ‘secrets’ are so meager, it would fetch only the cheapest bidder on the market, if he even _did_ care about sabotaging us.”

“It’s very unlikely that a primal is behind this alien technology,” Krile said. “As Cid’s already invested in protecting this latest device from ill uses, our research definitely won’t share anything the average person could put to use.”

Y’shtola inclined her head in silent assent, though she didn’t look happy about it.

“... I would like to go on the record as being opposed to this move,” Thancred said, “but I can see your points and that, moreover, I’m out-numbered. Fine. Let’s collaborate with an Ascian.”

Y'shtola snorted, crossing her arms tight across her chest. “You just had to put it like that, didn’t you?”

“If you thought I’d let us shy away from the massive step we’re taking _away_ from the Scions’ original purpose…”

“Speak for your own timelines, Master Waters,” Krile sniffed. “The Scions I know are meant to defeat primals. However impressive his knowledge and magics are, I’ve yet to see anything that convinces me he can enthrall others on demand. I’m pretty sure that’s a minimum requirement for a primal.”

“Let us not invite a demon into our midst by giving him name.” Urianger shook his head, collecting his papers into a neat stack as he did. “Alphinaud, if thou wouldst accompany me, I believe we are best suited for this conversation with Emet-Selch.”

Thancred sighed and shrugged, obviously giving in to the decision. “That, at least, we can all agree with.”

**. . .**

“Estinien! Hi!”

“Hello, Cahsi.”

“You’re here!”

Estinien halted. On patrol, he’d heard the camp’s loud singing and happy chatter from a malm away. Despite that, on his return from patrol, he’d hoped to dodge being drawn into it, disappear unnoticed into his bedroll, secure enough wool to stuff in his ears, and actually get some sleep. Sadly for his plan, his bedroll was in the tent closest to the main fire pit, and also, for whatever infuriating reason, the Scions in general were notoriously good at spotting him. 

At least it wasn’t the boy Alphinaud. Then he’d actually need to use the opportunity to talk.

For Cahsi, he supposed he could hear out what she had to say. They hadn’t always gotten along, but she’d learned not to waste his time.

… 

So why was she just staring at him?

Did she really want a response to that?

By how wide her eyes got when she looked him over, yes, she expected a response.

“Yes?” He prompted.

“You’re a dragoon!” She proclaimed.

What.

“... Yes?” 

Looking closer at her for signs of extreme inebriation, he found none that warranted such a statement. 

“With… a lance! That looks pretty, uh, intense… Does it have a name?”

_What._

“Did you have something you actually wanted to ask me, Cahsi? I’d like to retire for the night.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Or have you taken something that you shouldn’t have?”

“What’s that even— oh! No! Ergh, please, I wouldn’t do that here. I just, um,” she fidgeted and danced, shifting foot to foot and looking at anything and everything that wasn’t him, “was surprised by you being here, is all. Do you usually travel with—? Iro— uh, Gaiu- errr—?”

“I travel with van Baelsar in a temporary capacity,” he said, if only to stop the embarrassing guesswork and to encourage her to hurry to the point. “His work has proven challenging enough for the moment.”

“Right, right. Ever since… we fought together against… Thordan’s rebellion, and…”

One of the other mercenaries must have mixed their personal spices into the alcohol. They always thought foreigners could handle more than they usually could. As Estinien found out, being an Azure Dragoon and having a connection to Nidhogg’s lingering might had not made him exempt from specially spiced rum. Evidently, the Warrior of Light had needed the same lesson in humility. 

“And Nidhogg,” he supplied, and rather kindly, too, in his opinion.

“Who had still been mad about the betrayal even though most other dragons came around to the merits of peaceful co-existence, _yes_ , okay, thank you, Estinien, that’s what I couldn’t remember! Anyway,” a quick breath in to fuel her nervous, malm-a-moment ramblings, “it was nice seeing you again, glad you’re here, oh and by the way Alphinaud is by the fire and I bet he’d like to see you too, to say hi and everything, so— hey!”

Realizing the conversation had effectively finished, Estinien ignored her and continued his trek to his bedroll, disengaging his gauntlets and beginning to work them off as he went. Sand had managed to find its way yet again into pockets and crevices that sand had no business being in. It’d take an hour to clear it out. Best to do that before sleep. If van Baelsar insisted on remaining in the flat and desolate Burn for much longer, he’d have to take his leave. At least until the Garlean indicated he was done playing babysitter for his old ward, Garlond, and would commit again to pressing north, where the real challenge lay.

Because he had to be awake to clean his armor anyway, he gathered his toolkit and found the boy. It wasn’t the worst to catch up while they were in the same area, and moreover, the boy was smart enough not to be drinking the spiced rum. 

In that bell spent catching up, he was introduced to the boy’s sister, who was enough of a spitfire to rival a dragon and thus an immediate compatriot in reminding the boy that a bit of teasing wouldn’t kill him. To Estinien’s private approval, the boy had in the interim learned to give almost as good as he got. 

On a stray comment that he seemed older -- in a good way -- than when they had last parted, he was filled in on the fact that, soul-wise, they were. 

It was a strange, strange story. Estinien stayed for more than his expected bell to hear it all.

**. . .**

The waning moon hung high in the star-speckled sky. Below, the Burn’s sand gleamed. Beige tents and Ironworks-stamped supply crates huddled in the miniature crater the mystery object’s fall had created, the man-made structures interrupting the otherwise endless stretch of desert. An off-blue sheen covered where the moonlight touched. Closer to the encampment’s main fire pit, red from leftover coal and embers flickered and danced.

The camp had seen a larger gathering than usual around it not too long ago. The Scions and Warrior of Light arriving en masse had certainly stirred up attention. Even those who hadn’t met or fought (whether against or with) the group had heard of them, and after weeks stuck in the Burn, were happy for the fresh stories and personalities to sink their teeth into. 

Instruments, both string and vocal, had been broken out as the alcohol flowed. As nothing of especial note had happened or was set to happen, close to everyone passed by the main fire pit for a chance to chat and jape.

All in all, it was a good night. Not one for crowds, Gaius pulled double sentry duty to give his people a longer time to unwind. When the makeshift party died down, he took his break to brew some coffee to last him the rest of the night and early morning. 

When he reached the camp’s fire pit, only three others were still there. One, a very asleep and likely very drunk Ironworks engineer, was draped over two supply crates that had been shoved together to work as a bench. Two, the red-eyed miqo’te sat, humming an absent tune, on a blanket not too far from the fire. He gave Gaius a small smile and nod of greeting when he arrived. Three and finally, the spitting image of a middle-aged Solus het Galvus with a dye job laid flat on his back to the miqo’te’s right, his hands folded over his chest and eyes closed in apparent rest. 

Gaius was set on getting the story behind the fake Solus het Galvus before he departed, but the dead of the night after a party _probably_ wasn’t the best time. 

Later, though, he would. If only it had been safe to contact his old colleagues, Varis would have been interested in hearing about his grandfather’s doppelganger. 

The largest structure near the fire pit was the tent housing the mystery object. Illuminated by the lamplight within, Cid and Nero’s silhouettes paced to and fro across the burlap. Though muffled by the walls, their voices waxed and waned depending on where their discussion took them. Currently, they must have found something to agree on, as they were talking quietly enough that the subject-matter didn’t carry across camp. 

To Gaius’ knowledge, Cid had ventured out only when dinner had been done. He’d conversed with the Warrior of Light and the red-eyed miqo’te, at one point giving him a hug and saying something about the need for a toast to Noah. Nero, on the other hand, had left the tent after loudly accusing Cid of hiding a manuscript on him. He’d returned within two bells, of course, carrying one cup of coffee for himself and one for Cid. The missing manuscript, according to nosy sources, turned up by the evening. It’d been sorted into the wrong pile.

In other words, they were having a great time.

That Nero resolutely avoided him while Cid barely looked him in the eye was… unfortunate. Understandable and inevitable, but unfortunate. 

At least they didn’t have to talk about it.

In any case. More a concern was that Gaius’ people definitely weren’t having _a great time._ Unconvinced that their current target would be tempted to investigate the mystery object, _especially_ once word got out that the Scions of the Seventh Dawn were lurking about (which would be known sooner than later, as anyone with even half an eye open knew that where Cid was, the Warrior of Light eventually appeared), they thought this a waste of time. They were restless for a fight. For that reason alone, Gaius thought it prudent to make them cool their heels in some much-needed low-stakes sentry work. A bit of bloodlust was part of the job. Too much meant unacceptable collateral damage. He had enough of that in his own history, thank you.

Roasting in its iron holder over the fire’s remnants was his percolator. It bubbled and steamed, the rich smell of coffee mixing with smoke.

Cid had a fancy machine that he had happily invited anybody in camp to use, but Gaius didn’t like its thousand ‘modern’ functions and blinking buttons. It always brewed too hot and burnt out the taste. And no, he wasn’t being a _stubborn old man_ for thinking so, though he’d heard Cid mutter under his breath that he absolutely was.

The miqo’te’s eyes glinted in the fire. He’d stopped humming. 

Gaius tilted a mug in his direction. Once he caught the gesture, he shook his head with that same polite smile he’d used in greeting. It felt very practiced.

Pleasantries thus exchanged, Gaius poured himself a mug’s worth. He could have ended his break then and returned to patrol, but he lingered to warm his hands and boots. Though it lacked Garlemald’s knee-high snow piles, the desert’s nightly chill was nothing to turn one’s nose up at.

The miqo’te started up another little tune. Though subdued and drawn out, it definitely followed a rhythm of some sort.

Just as Gaius wondered whether he wanted to break the companionable silence to ask what the melody was from, the other Garlean beat him to it.

“I don’t recognize that one.” He hadn’t opened his eyes. “Gridanian?”

“Close. Sylphic.”

“No wonder. You haven’t the leaves to rustle on the down-beat.”

The miqo’te flicked the other’s arm in apparent exasperation at that reply, but nonetheless asked, “You’ve attended a sylph's recital?”

“Of course.” A pause. “At some point. I must have. I remember having to answer the most nonsensical riddle about wind.”

He made an inquisitive noise.

Duly, he said, “Without a mouth, I speak; without ears, I hear; untouchable, the wind carries me. What am I?”

A short silence. 

The miqo’te’s tail flicked, left to right. It narrowly missed hitting the Garlean in the face. Perhaps realizing that, the Garlean opened one eye to narrow in its direction. It was a look the miqo’te absolutely missed, though his tail then curled along his open side. The Garlean closed his eye again.

He guessed, “A shout?”

“Close.” Dryly. “An echo.”

“Very close.” He canted his head toward his companion, his eyes alight with more than the fire’s glow. “How long did it take you to figure it out? Hours?”

“Minutes,” was the reply, “but since you’re so clever, do _you_ know how many minutes are in an hour?”

Cheerily, “At least ten.”

“Well, you aren’t wrong,” a drawl. “It’s sixty. Perhaps you should stick to singing.”

Unconcerned, he hummed, leaned back on his hands and tipped his head up to look at the sky. 

To Gaius’ surprise, he started singing a quiet little song. Slow and sweet as it was, it didn’t fit in a tavern, around a campfire, or on the road, which meant it was entirely foreign to Gaius’ ears. Even still, he could tell it was well-sung. As the other Garlean silently took it in, it was possibly a simple pretty song for a pretty night.

To their far left, the low rumble of Cid and Nero’s discussion petered off. When Gaius checked, their shadows stood close enough as to belong to one. He at once looked away, and wondered whether they were aware the lamplight broadcasted their every movement. They had to be. He very much doubted this was their first _late night_ spent together.

While he was happy for Cid (though he personally thought Nero could do with a lesson in maturity that Cid shouldn’t have had to teach him), he also very much didn’t want to witness absolutely anything more regarding that particular tryst. And so Gaius finished his coffee, dropped the mug by the percolator, dusted a few flecks of ash from his boots, and took his leave. 

As he went, the miqo’te’s song followed him out. It carried well across the open air. It weaved through the camp on somber notes. When it reached the Burn’s desolation, it turned haunting.

**. . .**

The Nymian hymn hadn’t taken especially long to get through, but G’raha repeated it twice more to ensure he could sing it without error. It’d been ages since he’d seen the scrolls, but the melody was difficult to forget. At the end of the second round, Emet-Selch had mumbled words that were warm enough to be praise, rolled onto his side and, head pillowed on his arm, curled into G’raha’s space. It’d startled G’raha into stumbling mid-note. Receiving no explanation or witty quip, he’d eventually settled his gloved hand on Emet-Selch’s shoulder and kept singing. 

Eventually the moon dipped low enough on the side of the sky that told G’raha that he should really, really be tired. But he’d organized his books in the Tower for the entire day before they came out, wrestling with the split in his thoughts between a moonlit balcony and the hero he’d waited decades for, and so-- with how the crystal in his arm tended to slow down his need for anything mortal, he was wide awake. Instead, he felt somewhat lazy and, moreover, very relaxed. He abandoned singing for peaceful silence, happy to listen to the quiet noises of a camp filled with sleeping people. When he’d been relatively sure no one else was coming by the main fire (for it was now completely embers and ash), he’d taken off his gloves and absently ran his non-crystal hand through the fur and fringes on Emet-Selch’s sleeve. 

Sand speckled the dark of both their robes. Some had gotten into Emet-Selch’s hair. G’raha would brush it off, but didn’t want to disturb his rest. By the slack to his mouth and steady rise-and-fall of his chest, he was finally secured from the waking world. Hard as it was to believe (and hard as it was to tell, as Emet-Selch always had heavy shadows under his eyes and a perpetual _I wish I was asleep_ look), it did seem to be a while since he’d last slept.

At some point Emet-Selch had slung one arm around his waist, and he couldn’t move without waking him. Unfortunately, that meant that eventually-- preferably, sooner than later-- he’d _have_ to wake, as G’raha’s legs were cramping, and he’d really like to stand and stretch them. 

_Then again_ , the ground had to be uncomfortable to sleep sideways on, and just looking at the angle of his neck made G’raha’s own ache sympathetically, so… It was possible Emet-Selch could sleep through an earthquake, never mind losing his arm-pillow. 

Although-- or, maybe _because_ \-- a whirlwind of activity between arriving at the site and reuniting with the third-last piece of NOAH (because Biggs and Wedge were, sadly, on a delivery run with Jessie to a Namazu post in the Azim Steppe), it’d been a good day. Cid had been as kind and intelligent as the books had recorded _and_ as he’d remembered. Nero wasn’t near as kind, but he was still as intelligent. Moreover, after being on the receiving end for so long of the ribbing and teasing from Emet-Selch and others, the lack of bite in his bark was easier to see. They both got along well enough with Emet-Selch, which was a rare and happy stroke of luck because Emet-Selch was absolutely interested in pulling apart the white box. G’raha had left them to it once he’d realized Emet-Selch wasn’t going to waste time in demeaning their skills, and that, even if he did, both Cid and Nero were more than capable of keeping him in line.

Toward the late evening, Alphinaud had approached G’raha and let him know that Emet-Selch would be, in all respects, treated as a Scion for the immediate future. Then, after assuring himself that G’raha thought that to be good news, he’d mentioned in not so many words that they’d best think of a way to make sure everyone could get along, because this would as a matter of choice be the new normal for the Scions. 

It was rather idealistic of him, but that wasn’t a bad thing at all. In any case, G’raha agreed.

The hair on the back of his neck rose, a feeling of being watched coursing through him. Whatever it was, it pulled him from his thoughts. As he glanced around, however, he saw nothing but the sleeping body to his right and the sleeping body atop the crates.

The embers in the fire pit crackled quietly. The lamplight in Cid and Nero’s tent had been extinguished, though he didn’t recall when that happened.

… Did he spend too long getting lost in his thoughts? Not on this night in specific, but in general, and especially lately, it felt like he was constantly being startled.

Then again, long had it been since he’d ventured for a true adventure from his haven in the First… Being startled was likely a mark of a good adventure. He’d have to ask Cahsi--

Again, that feeling of being watched.

He whipped his head around, ears swiveling to catch any movement. 

Under his hand, he felt a light tremor. Frowning, he glanced down to Emet-Selch. 

The tremor turned into a shiver. Emet-Selch’s arm tightened around his waist in a compulsive twitch.

As he watched, one shiver became two became three became a never-ending shaking. His expression had twisted, his mouth a jagged line of pain and his eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the sun. It was akin to when Emet-Selch had dropped like a puppet with its strings cut in the underground cave; corrupt magic had gathered those strings in one deadly fist and forcibly re-animated him.

That thought knocked G’raha from his confusion. Speaking low so as to not draw undue attention from any who lurked about camp, he grabbed Emet-Selch’s shoulder and shook it.

In the low light, he saw Emet-Selch’s jaw unclench and his lips move. Though no sound came out, the shape was a clear denial. A _no_ , an _I don’t_ , a _how dare you--_

Worry rising fast, G’raha shook his shoulder with more force.

He voiced, “Emet-Selch?” and found hands curved into claws on his back, fingers digging in harshly just above his tail. 

Just as he made to pull the hands off and stand, Emet-Selch’s eyes snapped open. Gold zeroed in on him without actual comprehension. That and the sweat soaking his brow were all G’raha registered before Emet-Selch shoved _him_ away and scrambled up with a wordless snarl.

Everything about him, from his defensive hunch to the curl of his lips, snapped and hissed in anger. The air around him crackled with power, the smell of a lightning strike settling quickly around them. At the ashy fire pit, the embers swirled to life, raising once more to a full flame.

Swiftly standing, G’raha put his hands up and out. He shoved his confusion down as best he could, though he feared it wasn’t fast enough.

“Leave me be,” Emet-Selch demanded, the reproach and hatred so thick in his voice as to choke on the way out. “I’m finished. I’ve retired. I wish nothing to do with your ilk.”

“I’m not whoever you think I am,” was the only logical response G’raha could see, and so he made it. 

To their side, the drunken Ironworks staff member woke with a start, took one blurry look at the scene in front of her, and fell off her makeshift bed. Cursing, she tripped over her own boots in booking a hasty retreat.

In the face of her clambering and possibly G’raha’s steady stare, the conviction in Emet-Selch’s face wavered. The fire at the pit dimmed and sputtered, rising and falling rapidly as if caught in its own confusion. Soon enough he blinked rapidly, as though clearing his gaze, and swayed on the spot, as if pushed by a gale one way and then the other. 

Finally, he bent near in two and gripped his head, knuckles whitening as he pressed at his temples, eyes squeezed shut. After two deep, slow inhales and even slower exhales, he dragged his composure back and forced it into place. The fire returned to ash as the charged-metallic bite to the air receded.

“... Exarch?”

“That’s right.” G’raha slowly lowered his hands. “You recognize me now?”

“This is why I have gone to great lengths to remain awake,” was Emet-Selch’s annoyed reply. “One’s mind is frustratingly vulnerable when asleep.”

As the familiar complaint positively indicated matters were more normal, G’raha dropped his hands fully to his sides and moved closer. “You mean you’ve been having this trouble since we’ve _returned_?”

“ _Do_ save your lecture, Exarch. I’ve a terrible headache.”

He would not! It was a very reasonable lecture to give, especially as Emet-Selch had apparently decided _denial_ was the appropriate approach!

For the sake of potential eavesdroppers (though they were at the moment alone), he nonetheless summarized it into: “What in all of this Star would know to and have the power to target an Ascian?”

“A being most insistent,” came the unhappy response, “and most troublesome, as only its kind can be.”

“Speak _plainly_ ,” he demanded, stepping into Emet-Selch’s space to glare up at him and, after that, give him a glance-over to make sure something like the Doom hadn’t happened again and caused horrific flesh-spikes to burst from his shoulder. It would’ve been difficult to miss, probably, but with how strange of a turn the night took, G’raha wouldn’t put it past him to hide it.

“My dear,” with golden eyes half-lidded and a mouth quirked in a half-smirk, “did I worry you?”

“I know only one being that is most insistent and troublesome, and he stands in front of me.” And if he was smirking like that without any true intent, the threat was probably real. “What is giving you enough trouble that you’ve sworn off sleep?”

“If I had to describe it in three words, it would be: misguided recruitment tactics.” Then, in the same breath and before G’raha could respond, “You would defend this Star to its dying breath, wouldn’t you? Even at the cost of you, your friends, and the First? No, no need to answer. I know you would. It’s an admirable choice to make.”

“Emet-Selch, if you would please get to the point _before_ I’ve been entirely crystalized--”

“I merely wish a better creature sat at its core.”

Protest dying in his mouth, G’raha’s frown deepened as he once more tipped his head back to look Emet-Selch in the eye. Emet-Selch met it, as he almost always did.

For all he often boosted a flat affect, Emet-Selch was reliably, remarkably expressive. He had no reason to hide his feelings around them, and so he didn’t. It was a blessing and a curse depending on the situation. 

Right then, it was both.

“ _Hydaelyn_ is giving you trouble?” 

Because Emet-Selch’s unmoved expression had made clear the answer, it wasn’t a true question. Once identified as an option, the primal fit the disorientation, the threat, and the hastily-covered panic perfectly. Confirmation would merely be the ribbon on a box he’d opened and peered into. 

While he could guess-- a primal was a primal, after all-- he decided his assumptions weren’t cut out for the job of understanding the situation, and so he asked, point-blank: “Why?”

Another part of him wondered: _why not?_

He shoved it deep, deep down. The answer to that should’ve been obvious. A primal _was_ a primal, no matter how benign. 

“I’d share her purpose if I could discern it,” with frustration again creeping into his tone, “but alas, she’s committed to repeating her two-bit sales pitch until I’ve stopped my _truly unruly_ behavior and fallen into step like the rest of you.”

Before G’raha could call him on the broad generalization, he straightened, his eyes snapping up and over G’raha’s shoulder.

Instantly on alert, G’raha craned his neck to look too. 

Looking back at them was Cahsi.

 _Just_ Cahsi. Her eyes were wide and curious, her expression otherwise cautious, but given that she might have sensed Emet-Selch’s uncontrolled magic, that made sense. She closed the distance between them swiftly, and was within earshot without having to yell in mere moments.

G’raha relaxed.

“Cahsi,” he greeted, turning toward her. Relief undeniably flooded him as she approached. While he wanted to be able to offer help, he was woefully out of his depth when it came to Star-sized primals. She would know what to do about Hydaelyn. According to the records, she spoke personally with the mother crystal. “I’m glad to see you here. Emet-Selch is--”

Behind him was the unmistakable sound of a portal opening and closing. Having worked on his aetherial tracking with him, he recognized the pull and push of his Creation magic on the space around him. Unlike before, it was too rapidfire for him to intervene and halt.

G’raha froze mid-word. 

Once she reached him, he saw that confusion stretched like a big, fat question mark across her face, her brows pinching together and her mouth dropping open into an ‘oh’ of surprise. The cautious look had disappeared entirely from her face, and she held herself far less stiffly.

“... Emet-Selch is in need of your help,” he finished awkwardly. “As people who run away usually are.”

That sort of person hadn’t ever included Emet-Selch, though.

Cahsi looked like she agreed, and that she also found his burst of cowardice odd.

But first she explained, “You know, it’s strange. I was just dozing off when I had this feeling that I needed to talk to him,” she said, “so I came here. I thought he’d have the same inclination, but obviously not.”

G’raha hesitated a moment. But, this was Cahsi. Why should he ever hesitate?

It somehow felt like Emet-Selch’s story to tell, was why.

Except… Emet-Selch could be stubborn and evasive over topics at the best of times. And if he was to be a Scion, he needed to be treated like one-- and, similarly, behave like one. One Scion’s story was another’s.

(Again, the irony was thick enough to choke on. G’raha did his best to move past it.)

“It’s about Hydaelyn.” 

That only increased Cahsi’s confusion. G’raha spoke quickly to fill her in entirely.

After, Cahsi assured him that she would attempt to contact the mother crystal and see if something was truly wrong. She emphasized the _attempt_ : apparently Hydaelyn hadn’t been particularly chatty for some time, even before Cahsi’s excursion to the First. Still, she’d try, if only to get ahead of whatever Emet-Selch didn’t think it prudent to tell them. 

Remembering the vitriol in Emet-Selch’s expression after he’d nearly shaken himself out of his skin from what had to be a primal-induced night terror, G’raha appreciated the sentiment.

**. . i̷ ̸.̵ ̸.̶ ̴m̶i̸s̸** ̷.̸ ̷ ̴.̶ ̸.̶ ̶y̷o̵u̸ . .̸ ̴.̴ ̸ . 

. . .

Emet-Selch returned sooner than expected, though G’raha didn’t realize it until he and Alisaie stopped by the replicator’s tent to drop off paper folders and there the Ascian was, shoulder-to-shoulder with Cid over an open panel. Around their hunched figures, G’raha spied neat rows of green and blue crystals secured by clear, hollow wires. To his untrained eye it looked brand new and spotless, but he overheard Cid muttering about melted cables and fried microchips as he entered the tent. 

Cid straightened up when they came in, giving them a wide smile and exhausted-but-honest gratitude for them picking up the notes. Emet-Selch glanced their way, but quickly returned his attention to the panel.

“You’re pretty happy. Have a breakthrough?” Alisaie asked, one hand settling on her hip as she looked over the box. Like G’raha, she didn’t understand what she saw, but they both knew it was probably impressive.

“Oh, yeah. Huge ones. More than two in the morning alone. We’ll have this thing up and running for us in no time, though it might take a while after that before we learn how to recreate it.” Files deposited on a wobbly card table that doubled as an overburdened main-paper-table, Cid jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Emet-Selch, who didn’t look up. “In no small part because of that guy. Where’d you find him, again?”

“Actually, it was more like he found us,” Alisaie replied, “and wouldn’t leave us alone.”

“Hah! Well, whatever works.” 

Infected by his joy, Alisaie smiled too. “Between all the excitement, you’re taking care of yourself too, right, Cid? You look like you could use some sleep.”

“Yes, uh, that was,” his face flushed pink, and he turned away from them, hand rubbing at the back of his neck, “I just had a late night. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine, really.”

Barely-audible, Emet-Selch murmured, “Presumably more than fine,” and the pink along Cid’s cheeks deepened to a blazing red.

Alisaie, amused, and G’raha, bemused, exchanged a look behind his back.

Cid himself clapped his hands together and cleared his throat. “Right! Thank you for the notes. If you see Nero, tell him to bring in the coffee machine. We’re now _pretty_ sure it won’t interfere with the replicator, and we’ll definitely need it.”

“Where is he, anyway? Shouldn’t he be here?” Alisaie asked at the exact same time as the tent flap opened behind them and the person in question walked through.

“ _He’s_ right behind you, so tell him yourself, Garlond.” With two coffee mugs in hand and his sunglasses firmly in place, Nero breezed past Alisaie and G’raha and stopped to drop the mugs on the files they had just fetched. A few droplets spilled down the sides and formed a ring at the base. “But like I said before, we don’t know for sure it won’t cross currents.”

“It won’t,” Emet-Selch and Cid said in tandem. One voice was exasperated; the other, annoyed. If he didn’t know the voices well, G’raha would have been hard-pressed to say who was which.

“Even if it did,” Emet-Selch said, “the effect would be negligible.”

Nero grabbed a seemingly random page off another paper stack and took a pen out of his front shirt pocket and said, dismissive, “ _Your_ idea of negligible is even more suspect than mine.”

“We’ve established that,” Cid jumped in, “but since when have you been concerned about safety measures? We dragged that machine with us up and down Omega’s domain and never got sick.”

“Except it also started turning on without anybody touching it.” Cid began to protest, but Nero cut him off by twisting to the side and wagging a pen at him. “I don’t want it to start up anything while we’re elbow-deep in the replicator’s wires. I don’t need to encourage electrical burns, I’ve already lost feeling in most of my fingertips from them.”

“Maybe if you wore gloves that _weren’t_ fingerless, like you’re supposed to…”

“Maybe if they made gloves less cumbersome...”

“They _do_. I have three pairs myself.”

“I meant cumbersome in both control and style.”

“Machinery doesn’t care how you’re dressed.”

“If it did, would that encourage you to look into a mirror before returning to work? I’d like to remind you that _I_ have eyes, and I like to use them.”

“A good thing we don’t have a mirror in here, then, or you’d be stuck in front of it all day long, futzing with your hair--”

“That’s a compliment, you realize--”

“Emet-Selch,” Alisaie said, moving around the box’s end and closer to the person in question, if only to be heard over Cid and Nero’s continued bickering. G’raha followed, knowing what was coming now that they’d found him (for he, Cahsi and the Scions had all discussed it in the morning after his concerning statements regarding Hydaelyn and subsequent departure), “are you needed here for all of today?”

Rather than immediately reply, he detached a hollow wire from the gold brackets around one of the blue crystals. 

Although Alisaie wasn’t typically one for games, she waited him out. Well, she crossed her arms and tapped a foot, _but_ she also didn’t shut the panel on his fingers even though it had to have occurred to her. It certainly did for G’raha.

While working on detaching the other side’s wire, Emet-Selch finally said, voice light, “I planned to be here for all of today, yes.”

That wasn’t quite what Alisaie asked. “There’s been an issue northwest from camp with a worm nest. They look ready to migrate our way.”

“Has the Warrior of Light fled so soon? Petty monsters are, to my knowledge, perfectly within her capabilities. But if not her, then I do believe there _are_ plenty of would-be guards with sharp sticks milling about.”

“This one’s on us.”

“Have they _all_ taken ill?” Emet-Selch clicked his tongue. “Or has van Baelsar lowered his standards so far that his people are unable to march in a straight line across a flat, open desert? That would be disappointing, but not surprising. The mightier they are, the farther they fall...”

In the corner of his eye, G’raha saw Cid and Nero both frown, their bickering pausing as they picked up on a name they knew well in a context they understandably took offense to. Though she most _definitely_ wanted to slam that panel down onto his fingers, Alisaie smacked her hand onto the box’s side instead. 

Ceasing his fidgeting with the wires, Emet-Selch glared at her hand, straightened his back, and narrowed his eyes down at her.

“I’m neither combatant, nor an adventurer,” he scowled, “and while you lot may be happy to scurry to and fro for the sake of someone else’s menial tasks, I will not.”

“It’s part of pulling your own weight,” she replied, and matched him scowl-for-scowl. “It’s either monster duty or kitchen duty. Between the two, we thought you might appreciate getting a little sun.”

“My talents are better suited for--”

“You mean you can make a sword, but you can’t use one?”

“Those two things are very seldom related.”

“They should be.” She took a rocking step back, both hands now on her hips. “Listen. It won’t take long. You’d be going with Thancred, Urianger and Ryne. Try not to snap anyone out of existence, monsters included.”

His eyes shifted to G’raha’s, paused with a question he didn’t catch, then moved back to hers. A thoughtful edge eased his scowl into a light frown.

G’raha expected more of an argument, or another outright refusal. As with most requests, express or implied, they didn’t actually have the means to force him to do anything. If he didn’t want to, he wouldn’t have to.

Instead of the expected, however, something in him must have understood it as the olive branch it was. 

All the same, he took his time in answering. Attention refocused on the panel below, he detached the last wire from the holding bracket and plucked the crystal out of its socket. Holding it up and contemplating it in the tent’s yellow light, he asked, “When did you mean for this excursion to begin?”

“Tomorrow at the break of dawn.”

“We’ll be back before the sun boils us alive, I assume.”

“Hopefully.”

“And we will be reaching the nest by--?”

“We have a vehicle on loan from Ironworks.”

“You do?” Cid asked then, having deemed it a good point to re-enter the conversation, “Which one?”

“The guy who loaned it called it ‘Greta?’”

“Oh, that’s great. You’ll need to go easy on the breaks, and the windshield wipers have a mind of their own, but she’ll get you where you need to be.”

“What a ringing endorsement.” Emet-Selch said, straight-faced. “I can scarcely contain my excitement. I’m sure everything will go perfectly.”

They took their leave soon after that. 

On their way out, after the tent flap fell closed behind them, they caught Cid asking, his tone _suspiciously_ light, “You never mentioned you knew Gaius van Baelsar. How’d you two meet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀👀👀 o shi--
> 
> if you like tangents on cid/nero, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26583643) is a short little interlude on what those two were up to during the night!
> 
> follow me on twitter at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) if u like


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning:** awkward old folks being awkward . . . and worm death. oh, worm :(

Greta was loud, clunky, and got them where they needed to be in the least amount of style and comfort possible. 

They reached the nest by mid-morning. Seated up front next to a _very untalkative_ driver by the name of Thancred, Ryne spent the ride with her face pressed to the dust-covered windows. Though the Burn’s monotony offered little to comment upon, she took what opportunities she could to point out a peculiar-looking outcropping or ancient, sun-bleached skeleton. 

Heartened by her commentary, Urianger did his best to keep her talking. To his chagrin, he repeated the same four to five phrases again and again. Privately, he attributed the lack to the scenery than his conversational skills.

At least they spoke. When specifically addressed, Thancred gave little more than one-word acknowledgements and, when he could get away with it, grunts. Urianger thought it an entirely unnecessary show of displeasure, as Ryne didn’t deserve the silent treatment by proxy, and anyway, Emet-Selch spent the drive slumped against the back seat and pretending to sleep. If Urianger hadn’t known what to watch for, he would’ve thought him well and truly passed out. But he held himself too stiffly over the vehicle’s rougher bumps, and didn’t tip an ilm when Thancred gunned it over a hill’s crest.

As a silent and still Emet-Selch was better for Thancred’s early-mission nerves (which were as bad as Urianger expected them to be, considering the close quarters with _all_ of them), Urianger let him be.

When they finally arrived at their destination, stopping their massive box with wheels at the top of a crested dune, Emet-Selch ‘woke,’ threw open the door, and left the vehicle before Thancred even figured out how to put it into park.

Ryne opened her door and began to exit before she realized the other two remained within. Urianger saw her hesitate, one foot dangling off the side, before she slid back into her seat, settled her hands on her knees, and dutifully directed her eyes forward. Urianger wanted to tell her that she could do as she pleased, but in his experience, such comments served only to increase her anxiety. 

“That’s far more than fifteen.” Thancred had one hand on the wheel and one on the dash. He leaned forward to squint-glare out of the front window at the writhing mass of monsters at the dune’s base. “Who did the headcount? Are we sure they weren’t sun-sick?”

“One of van Baelsar’s people.” Urianger leaned forward over the front seat to catch a look for himself. Though Thancred's tension from the ride was directed squarely upon the monsters, he spoke true: the nest numbered close to double of what they expected. The most optimistic thing he could think of to say was, “We’ve dealt with worse, and with far less warning.”

“We should separate them if we can.”

“With care, a lure might be fashioned…”

Thancred chewed on the inside of his cheek and drummed his fingers against the dash. 

“With what?” He finally asked. “We’ve got rations, this vehicle, and ourselves. Not sure they’d be interested in the biscuits or free transport.”

Urianger sat back again and glanced out the rightmost window to where Emet-Selch stood away from the vehicle and under the glaring sun. His expression matched the misery that his predominately black outfit inspired.

“That’s not all we have.”

Following his gaze, Thancred made a face that said he desperately wanted to protest. However, practicality won out, and he waved Urianger on to _work his immortal-charming magic._ It wasn’t a title he’d ever wanted to be labeled with (and not only because it was patently untrue), but as it was the kindest message the others could have regarding his ill-begotten tryst with Elidibus, he wouldn’t argue.

Instead, he took a silent breath to center himself, and pushed open the door to step out and speak with him.

Emet-Selch didn’t acknowledge his approach. Sensing pleasantries were the farthest thing from either of their minds, Urianger said, by way of greeting, “We believe a lure is in order, but haven’t the means without thine aid.”

“That would be a simple matter.” Neutrally. “But a lure would place the beast in control of whether it wished to bite.” 

Urianger looked over the monsters below again.

They were hulking creatures. Even at a distance, their three rows of teeth and sheer bulk were impressive. While their sort favored tunnels for travel, Urianger saw no such entrances below their bodies. The lack supported the theory that they were traveling closer toward camp, though he wondered at why they did not travel underground. Undoubtedly it was faster, and they were made desperate by a lack of food or other natural impulse.

To best fight them without unduly risking a lost limb or crushed rib cage, they needed to thin their numbers.

If not a lure…

“Couldst thou divide them?”

“Yes, but it would be rather messy and take some time.”

“-- Couldst thou divide them not in half, but so that we might fight one or two at a time?”

Looking at him from the corner of his eye, Emet-Selch considered Urianger. “With coordination, I could.” 

“That ist our mission’s purpose.”

He turned fully toward Urianger, who met and held his gaze steadily. 

“You admit it, then. The monsters are not the true concern. You’re testing my propensity to be a team player.”

Urianger allowed a light frown upon his face. “Was the purpose not obvious from the onset?”

A soft snort. “It was.” But he appreciated the honesty, Urianger guessed. Or just the accountability. 

“Then we are in understanding.”

“Hm.” As if night to day, he returned his gaze to the monsters below and, with affected indifference, said, “So we are. I will raise walls such that the beasts have a single exit, and that they shall proceed one-by-one. Your weapons must be ready when I do, as I will not win your fight for you. I don’t believe that would be in the proper spirit of _teamwork._ ”

Ignoring the jab, Urianger promised, “We shall be prepared.” It sounded easy, actually, if it went according to plan. A single-file line would please Thancred as well as offer a fine chance to continue Ryne’s precision training. “I will inform the others, and we will make ready. Thank you, Emet-Selch.”

Eyes on the valley below, perhaps calculating what manner of wall he wished to summon, Emet-Selch waved him off.

Urianger went to do as he said he would. Because he hoped they would all be talking by the end of the day, he did not tell Thancred that in some small ways, Thancred and Emet-Selch weren’t _that_ different.

****

. . .

It was said that a plan never survived first contact with the enemy.

Their plan survived the first to twenty-first contact. It did not survive the twenty-second.

In other words, it started well. Taking his materials from the dunes around them and weaving it in such a manner as to crowd the monsters together almost without their realizing, Emet-Selch raised a great dome of sand over the nest. The walls were thin enough for the beasts within to be as trackable shadows, such that Thancred pinpointed where the largest ones accumulated and thereafter positioned their four-person group accordingly for when the battle would begin.

Finally realizing they were trapped, the three dozen giant sand worms within raised a cacophonous protest. While Emet-Selch remained intent on maintaining the dome and did not so much as blink at the monstrous screams, Urianger and Ryne covered their ears with their hands. Even Thancred, hearing dulled by one too many close-range gunshots, winced when the brutal screech of one monster attacking another rose from within the dome.

Once the monsters’ fervor hit that unholy pitch, Emet-Selch shared a brief glance with Thancred. After the barest hesitation, he quickly checked that Ryne and Urianger were ready. Looking back to the dome, gunblade at temporary rest on his shoulder, he nodded. 

At that, Emet-Selch levitated himself a safe distance up (and if he thought the Scions below didn’t notice, he needed to give them credit for having _eyes_ ) and dropped one hand. With it, a huge door’s worth of sand fell from the dome’s northmost side. The monsters, eager to discover and crush the source of their confusion, spilled out.

Due to the opening’s size, the worms exited one-by-one. Given their frenzy, they were not neat or polite about it.

That was fine. Thancred and Ryne’s blades, supported by Urianger’s magic, weren’t neat or polite about putting them down.

After their up-close-and-personal clashes with sin eaters, the worms weren’t a _challenge._ The sheer number posed a temporal problem in terms of staying on their feet and keeping their minds sharp, but the actual monsters were straight-forward, flesh-and-blood creatures. Cut here, crush there, and they died. 

With the sun above, the valley soon became a steaming, bloody mess. They had to back up to avoid slipping on worm guts, such that they were soon fighting from the crest of a dune. As the high ground became a distinct advantage for their fighting, it surprised Urianger that the creatures continued to rush forward, even though it included a slow, troublesome climb over their fallen kin. 

He realized why around the eighteenth monster. A sluggishly moving, smaller beast, Ryne had no trouble darting onto its back and sinking her blades into the soft flesh between hardened scales. Thus having a break to take stock of their situation, Urianger looked around and, finally, up. There, black and red aether swirled around Emet-Selch’s hands as he made short, sharp gestures from his safe and clean vantage point. In time with his gestures rippled electricity along the beast’s sides, such that the beasts exiting the dome were cajoled forward along an unerringly straight line.

That, along with the high ground advantage, explained why the creatures slowed to sluggish attacks by the time they reached the Scions. 

Four monsters later with over two-thirds subdued, the worms left got a clue that they were losing. It was then that the largest beast yet left the dome. By the blood coating its teeth, it had been the creature to start a fight with its kin. It looked mean. It looked pissed. It was ready for a follow-up snack of three bite-sized mortals.

Thancred cautioned them to stay together. He’d swing it to the right, he said. Ryne would keep to its back, but avoid getting on its back, lest it rolled. Urianger would keep to the left, with both of them in sight. If Urianger wouldn’t mind reading their fortunes _before_ confrontation, he said, that would be great.

As he’d already pulled a card to divine, Urianger assured him he was on it.

“--- Watch out!”

Ryne, in a voice she never used unless she was truly panicked. Urianger snapped his head up to her, and found her rushing toward him, her eyes huge. At the same time, Thancred yelled at her to remain back, and Urianger to hold on.

That didn’t bode well.

The rumble under his feet and ear-splitting roar of the beast confirmed his fear. He jumped back out of reflex, but found himself scrambling for purchase on ground that no longer wanted to retain its shape. The dune’s crest was breaking and falling, the sand below pouring downward toward the beast. It had broken from its dead kin’s path. Though Emet-Selch’s red lightning crackled along its form, its skin was too thick for it to care. Thus it had circled to their left, whereupon it had apparently attempted to tunnel into the sand but hit _something_ big and blue. When it tried to force the thing out of its way, it dislodged a hidden structure that had, apparently, formed a foundation for the dune.

Gravity insisted Urianger follow the crumbling dune. Powerless to stop it, he willed his card’s fortune to Ryne and braced himself for the sliding fall.

Bracing did not work. He slid three yalms before the sand enveloped his foot and sent him crashing forward with a cruel, popping twist to his ankle and knee. He tumbled five more yalms before he was unable to keep track of what was up and what was down, and then he just did his best not to break anything else.

Below, the monster roared again. It sounded more distant than before. The others shouted, also at a distance.

After what felt like far too long, he hit something hard and flat. Though winded, he tried to dig in his good heel and his fingers, but the ground was too smooth to give purchase. As momentum seldom wished to break, he slid across it, his skin burning from the drag, until he reached an unexpected edge-- and _fell_ into pitch black. 

The cold dark blocked out the chaos of battle. All he heard was the staccato of his own quick breathing, the whistle of wind against his ears, and the rustle of sand which fell with him. 

_This,_ he thought, _was going to hurt._

And it should’ve. He fell not a great distance, but at a great speed; based on what he’d hit before, he’d tumbled into a metal vessel, which was a substance notoriously unforgiving when met with falling bodies.

It would’ve hurt, had he hit the ground.

Instead he hit what felt like plush, dense air. Black of a lighter hue than the dark swirled around him and cushioned his fall. Though his entire body felt like one throbbing bruise, that was likely the tumble and not the landing.

While he pain-stakingly caught his breath and gathered his very scattered wits, he saw Emet-Selch through the small opening above him: black robes stark against the pale blue sky, he had one hand out-stretched with fingers splayed.

Other sounds from the world above filtered in. The crack of a gunshot, the screech of a monster’s displeasure. Ryne, yelling questions and observations; Thancred, the same.

Emet-Selch curled his hand, and the aetherial cushion below Urianger began to rise. As it did, he stole a look around the room he’d fallen into. For it was a room, albeit one that appeared to be on its side, with smooth white crates bolted into the far left side with pipes and lines and other ceiling fixtures running along the other. 

Then he reached the opening, which had perhaps once been a window or door, and he was forced to climb out before Emet-Selch accidentally (or negligently, knowing him) crushed him against the metal siding. His arms shook as he did, adrenaline keeping him upright as much as anything like strength.

“Urianger! He’s okay!” 

“-- Eyes on your target, Ryne!”

Despite his warning, Thancred’s voice held unmistakable relief. The giant beast had fallen under his blade, but two more had left the dome during Urianger’s absence. At a glance, he saw blood streaking down a shallow bite in Ryne’s arm, while Thancred favored his left leg. Emet-Selch, floating above it all as he was, was fine, but his scowl (meant entirely for the monsters) cut a deep line across his face. Once Urianger had reached the surface, he’d turned his full attention back to managing the beasts in their march to death.

Rightly so. For Ryne and Thancred, such minor wounds quickly spiraled out of control in a prolonged battle. Urianger forced himself up, was glad to find his astrolab filled with sand but otherwise unharmed, and set to healing. He’d think of what he’d seen after the fight.

**. . .**

They disposed of the remaining monsters in short order. Emet-Selch collapsed the dome upon the last two’s heads, which served both to distract them and send Urianger into a sneezing fit. While the Ascian at last rejoined them on the ground, Ryne was in the midst of shaking out her dress and hair to dislodge copious amounts of sand. 

Thancred resisted, just barely, the urge to tell her to throw some of the dust on the spotlessly clean Emet-Selch.

More compelling was the door to a vessel unknown. Laying flat on his stomach so as to best peer into the opening without risking a fall, Thancred leaned as far as he dared into the dark.

Below stretched a room not unlike a white-metal warehouse, as Urianger had said. Alien in its smooth and rounded corners, everything within was still and cold. The sand that had fallen in when the opening formed was the most personable thing about the place. Although it felt _old_ , it didn’t look it. It looked, in fact, brand new.

Same as the replicator.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Alphinaud was right. Unless this connects to the strangest forgotten castle, I imagine we’re standing on the side of a buried futuristic ship.” Thancred sat back up, shifting to dangle his legs through the door. “He’s going to be absolutely insufferable.”

“As he deserves to be.” Urianger stood on the opening’s other side, his hands on his hips and neck craned to peer through the opening as well. Ryne crouched next to him, her attention similarly captured by their admittedly limited view. “He’ll be happy to learn of our discovery. I propose we postpone our first venture into the unknown until the others are present.”

“That sounds fair to me.” Thancred waited until Ryne nodded, then cast a glance to Emet-Selch. “What say you?”

“... For efficiency’s sake,” he said, after a small pause where he confirmed Thancred was, indeed, asking him, “Garland’s notes would be useful toward properly categorizing what we see as we see it. Even from this distance, it’s clear the replicator and whatever lies below our feet match in origin.”

Nodding, Thancred stood and brushed the sand from his pants. “I haven’t had as close of a look, but I agree. Urianger, would you like to drive?”

“I would rather a nap, truthfully.”

“Not even Greta’s rough ride could keep you from that, hm?”

“Quite. It’s difficult to tell whether I have not already fallen asleep where I stand.”

Standing too, Ryne piped in with, “We should have lunch before heading back. Cahsi packed us some thermoses of coffee and tea, while the sandwiches are from G’raha.”

“I knew I smelled jam…” 

Thancred started walking toward ‘Greta’, which had thankfully been parked far from the fight and its collapsing dunes. Urianger and Ryne followed. Not six yalms later, he realized their last group member hadn’t. Stopping, Thancred turned back with a slight frown. 

Looking no less or more than an upright shadow, Emet-Selch remained by the doorway to their discovery. Robes similar in shape to the old black-and-purple Ascian garb, his silent but intense contemplation reminded Thancred of what he had been for longer than any of them could hope to grasp: an ancient observer, a frequent meddler, and _not_ an omnipotent god.

“Hey!” Their separation thus interrupted, Emet-Selch turned his attention to Thancred. It wasn’t as heavy or disdainful of a regard as Thancred recalled. “Are you coming?”

Although it took him an ungodly length of time to make up his mind (at least to Thancred’s sore body and hungry stomach), he decided he would. Fortunately, there were enough sandwiches for all of them.

**. . .**

“Ere we depart, I wish to offer thee my sincerest gratitude.”

They ate their lunch in the vehicle for its shade and cooling system both. The latter had been a pleasant surprise upon setting out on their mission. In consequence of Garlemald expanding their magitek interests beyond war machines, Greta came with _air conditioning_. Although it rattled and coughed as much as the one in the Amaurotine hotel, it wasn’t nearly as powerful. Despite that and the fact it required the engine to run to work, Urianger very much hoped that one day the marvelous innovation would extend to homes.

“Remind me what exactly you’re thanking me for.” Gaze flat and neutral, Emet-Selch set down his half-eaten sandwich and ticked each item off on a finger: “The initial corralling, the steady march, the catch--?”

“The soft landing,” Urianger smoothly interrupted, allowing a sardonic edge to drag down his words. “I fear I would have quite the headache had I hit the ground without your intervention.”

“Ah. Yes.” Emet-Selch picked his sandwich back up. “You’re welcome.”

An acceptance and a dismissal, both cut and dry. Bemused, Urianger returned to his own lunch.

Thancred did not. He said, “That’s really it?”

Emet-Selch said, “Would you like to add your own thanks? I listed a number of things you could show gratitude for.”

“I don’t see much point in thanking you for doing your job.” Thancred half-turned around, so as to prop his arm on the seat’s headrest and look back at them. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve chipped in without asking for anything in return.”

Y’shtola came to mind; and, more recently and importantly, returning them to the Source. As he didn’t bring it up, they certainly didn’t. 

To Urianger, it didn’t feel right to thank him for that. It would have added insult to injury, no matter how voluntarily he acted.

“And, as before, my expectations have not changed.” Emet-Selch’s attention remained on his lunch. “What aiding you offers, I’ve already gained. Anything you could provide in addition, I could make for myself at a fraction of the cost and tenfold the quality.”

Knowing Thancred as he did, Urianger saw how his jaw clenched and the hand shielded from Emet-Selch’s view by the seat curled into a tight fist. Frustration wove its way across his face. Forcibly, he stopped himself from his first response and instead, picked his words carefully.

“What I meant was,” he said, “that on the First, I hadn’t believed that you were doing this out of the goodness -- or distant, curious boredom -- of your heart. And in no few ways, I was proven right.”

Mouth turning down at the corners, Emet-Selch flicked his eyes up to meet his.

“But now, I can’t see what benefit you could possibly gain from going along with our plans.” He gestured toward where the unknown ship was buried. “You could’ve taken that vessel and the replicator and disappeared to wherever you’d want to study them for yourself. In the same vein, you could’ve let Urianger split his skull in two and been free of one annoyance.”

“And you could have put a bullet between my eyes the moment you knew me to be who I am in Amaurot,” he replied with vague impatience. “We all have choices. Please, for the sake of us all, arrive at your point.”

Thancred hardened his gaze. 

“There must be something you would ask of us.”

“There--” Emet-Selch began in clear, unconcerned denial, but-- stopped. His gaze shifted to Ryne, then back to Thancred (who had, of course, tensed). When he spoke again, his voice tilted on absent curiosity. “There is... one thing.”

When he didn’t immediately continue, Thancred prompted, “And? That thing is?”

Shoulders rolling back, he straightened. Urianger was at once reminded that he was a good few ilms taller than his slouch made him appear. Unlike previous times he’d risen to his full height, he spoke not in threat or anger. In fact, his voice kept its typical placid lilt. 

Nonetheless, the request was an honest, if strange, one.

Maybe not so strange. They’d all been warned from Cahsi about his Hydaelyn-inspired nightmares, though it boggled their minds to think of what that could possibly entail.

“Tell your blessed Mothercrystal to leave me be.” His eyes again moved to Ryne, but this time, they stuck there. “I recognize She lacks both the incentive and, perhaps, the _will_ to listen, but surely Her Chosen can manage a message as simple as that.”

Clearly taken off guard at being so directly addressed, Ryne hesitated a moment before answering, “I could try. We don’t talk, exactly.”

“Figure out a way.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his words steadily sharpening themselves upon an ire Urianger had thought gone. “If you would. Otherwise I will, and I won’t promise that any of you will like what that entails.”

A crease formed between Ryne’s brow. Though Urianger expected her to ask for details, she didn’t. Instead, stiffly, she nodded.

By the hard, downward twist to his mouth, that didn’t reassure Emet-Selch at all.

And so Urianger asked, his own curiosity and confusion honest, “What dost Hydaelyn request of thee?”

“Oh, you know. My heart, my mind, my soul. My undying life. The same thing any primal wishes for.”

That irked to hear, but was not surprising. The difference was that Hydaelyn had not, to Urianger’s knowledge, actively recruited. Or if she had, it had never been to the detriment of the Source’s people.

For her to target Emet-Selch, however, boded ill. 

“What need hast she for thy life?”

“What need hasn’t She?” was the low reply. “She senses a being of my power lacks a God, and She’s happy to fill that gap.”

“... Is she yet of your people’s making?” Thancred asked, his earlier frustration smoothed over by his own budding concern. The ever-present tension he had when he spoke to Emet-Selch was, for once, gone.

“As far as I can tell, yes. Though I’ve no idea how or why. Certainly, none save I have survived to serve Her in this blighted future.” There rose again his old bitterness. Emet-Selch shrunk back into his slouch and his scowl, his teeth flashing on every word. “She hasn’t exactly been forthcoming without my sworn allegiance.”

“Your enthrallment.”

“Just so.” Spoken on an abruptly tired exhale, his bitterness abating for a breath. “Though I won’t begrudge a primal acting as a primal does, it grows irksome.”

Low in his throat, Urianger hummed acknowledgement. “Ryne? Hast thou sensed any irregularity?”

“She wouldn’t,” Emet-Selch said, instantly dismissive, “and even if she did, she wouldn’t care.”

As that was an attitude less than helpful, Urianger kept his attention on Ryne.

After Emet-Selch finished, Ryne said, somewhat apologetic, “You might be right. I haven’t sensed anything particularly different. I suppose She’s been a little more… present. Honestly, I’m not sure how to describe it other than that. But I assumed it was because we’re on Her favored Star.”

Thancred caught Urianger’s eyes. His lips thinned, and a shadow appeared between his eyes as his eyebrows drew down. He was unimpressed with that answer-- or, more likely, unimpressed with Hydaelyn’s apparent meddling. A primal was a primal, indeed. Not even the Mothercrystal could be exempt from their fight for freedom from a primal’s influence. 

In answer, Urianger gave him the barest rise-and-fall of a shoulder. Though Hydaelyn’s active interest was somewhat concerning, the real question at hand was how to best secure Emet-Selch from her reach. Surely they could manage that without upsetting the world’s balance.

Thancred’s eyes narrowed slightly in plain disagreement. Then he huffed a short breath, and they both silently decided to discuss _that_ later.

And so Thancred said to Emet-Selch, “Most of us aren’t much use when it comes to dismantling and understanding alien technology,” with a hint of good humor. “Personally, I’d feel more comfortable investigating Hydaelyn’s situation.” 

“Me too,” Ryne agreed. 

Urianger did as well.

“We were informed about what happened the night before,” Thancred continued, to Emet-Selch’s immediate and evident displeasure, his expression flattening, “and that’s a textbook primal problem. It just makes sense that the Scions would be involved.”

“T’would appear that need for our attention hast arisen some time ago,” Urianger added. “Better we be late than never, as they say.”

Unconvinced, Emet-Selch cocked his head to one side, and then the other.

Nonetheless, for once, he made the wise decision not to argue with them. Instead he gave them an exaggerated shrug and shake of the head (a silent _fine, you optimistic little mortals, do as you will_ ), and settled back into his almost-comfortable pretend-to-nap corner of the backseat, his arms folded across his chest.

He said, “Very well. I’d appreciate a copy of whatever findings you make.”

It was a ringing endorsement, as far as his usual went. Thancred nodded in acceptance with unusually solemn regard, as if they’d laid out a fully-fleshed deal and his acquiescence was the final signature on the dotted line.

Even Emet-Selch seemed to understand it for the offer to help that it was. At least, he lost a bit of his overt annoyance at them and limited his doubts about their abilities to properly investigate Hydaelyn to a loud, pointed silence.

The tension between them eased. They finished their lunch. When Thancred shifted the vehicle from park to drive (upon which Greta’s windshield wipers gave three happy, scraping waves across the dry front glass, much to the misfortune of all their ears), he said, casual in a way he’d never have been on a drive with Emet-Selch in the backseat, “Once we’re out of the dunes and on flat ground, you should take over the wheel, Ryne.”

“But I’ve never driven before.”

“Then that sounds like now is a perfect time for you to start.”

She straightened up in the passenger’s seat, interest lighting up her eyes.

She was a generally careful child, Urianger thought, and certainly capable, but mistakes in vehicles tended toward the unforgiving. Did she really want to learn with them in the back…?

Eyes shut and voice too low to be heard over the engine’s rumbling by anyone except Urianger, Emet-Selch muttered, “Before we make that switch, I must needs invent seatbelts.”

**. . .**

With Ryne in the driver’s seat and Greta none the worse for wear for it (though Urianger lost a few strands of hair at how Thancred encouraged her to abandon her cautious nature and really _put that petal to the metal_ ), they returned to camp by dusk. There they delivered the news of the ship, to no few blue-outfitted engineers’ and Scions’ delight.

While Jessie, as chief, unelected overseer, coordinated moving the encampment and the replicator closer to the ship, the less technologically minded Scions returned to Revenant’s Toll to make good on their deal.

Neither, of course, expected to find what they did.

****

**. . . .̷͓̤̻̖̦̉̂̈́̇ ̷͔̗̠̝̉̉͊̀ͅ.̵͠͝ ̵͇̥̳̣̌̇͠ .**

**.̷͓̤̻̖̦̉̂̈́̇ ̷̉̉͊̀ .̷̉̂̈́ .̵̮͆͆̐͒͘͠͝ ̵͇̥̳̣͈̜̰̌̇͠ .**

**.**

“C̶̖̻̐͝hi̸̛̙͍̋ld̷̦̂ m̶̈͜in̶̘̚e.̵̺͆ ̵͚̌͂ ̴̜̻̇. . . .”

A soul, fickle and frail, stopped its meandering across Her home and faced Her Light.

Not fully. Never fully. The soul, fickle and frail, could not and would not. 

As was intended. If they did, they might frighten themselves. Even Her Warriors, guided and shielded from the entire weight of Her presence, had faltered. She meant for them to be mighty. They wanted for nothing. 

They were as they needed to be: safe, shielded, secure.

Her makers had not been safe. Her makers had made Her to make them safe. For Her makers, She had striven and succeeded to craft them a secure world, a kind world, a world that they might rule, for they were the world. Small and Sundered, they were a world they could not poison.

It worked. It worked! Look how they flourished. She was happy. She was.

But then there were the Unsundered. Those who would reap Her benefits without their Sacrifice. 

They had fled. 

Hadn’t they? 

They had.

They had fled. They hadn’t returned. So long embroiled in strife, they hadn’t recognized what was safe. They forgot why She had been made. 

Misguided souls. Lost souls. She wished for their return. Oh, how She wished. Her world, if they but knew, would do the same.

And now.

An Unsundered without her shield, unsafe and unsecure, walked again in Her home.

“Chi̸̛̙͍̋ld̷̦̂ m̶̈ine. Wọ̸̏rr̸̙͘ͅy̶̜͑͒ ̶̓n̴͖̓͘ot̷̝̂͂.” 

Sundering ensured a clean world, a kind world, a world they might rule without fear. Though their bodies and minds failed them, though they fought and bled and died, fleeting were their woes when their souls might be guided through Her grace, cleansed by the Lifestream and returned to live their Small and Safe lives again. 

She would have them as they were meant to be. Though she could not Hear, the little one, fickle and frail, felt Her joy and Her wish that they might bring the Unsundered safely into their fold. In its reckless, ignorant resistance, the Unsundered threatened them all.

The little one knew the Unsundered. Good.

\-- The little one doubted. Resisted. 

Resisted?

How? Why?

“U̸̪̽ṇ̶̑͗d̸̘͗͛e̶̙͑r̸̳̊s̷͕͛̃ẗ̵͉͕́à̸̝͜͝n̸͇͝d̷̟͂i̴͕̒̊ñ̴̤̾g̷̦̤͒͛ ̶̮͔̋̉is ̷͔̄͌all̸ ̷̯̈́̽ w̵͊̊͑̓e̵͊͑̋̅̽̍ ̴̮͊se̵͉̎ek, child m̶̈ine.”

She Soothed the doubts, the worries, the strife.

The little one wavered. Close by, another did the same. Her Warrior. Her kind, beloved, Sundered Warrior.

Why?

Great as the Star was and Small as the souls were, it took effort, so much effort, to See through the little one’s eyes. Eventually their activities would filter to Her awareness through their connection, but She was not one to tend toward inaction. And so Hydaelyn made the effort to See those who acted with her interests at the forefront of their minds, because these were Her children and Her makers both. She had not been made to fail them.

She saw: knowledge of the Thirteenth Shard. Ah. 

Sorrow.

Regret.

Yes. These were appropriate responses to the Thirteenth. She would allow them, for they were true.

The Thirteenth... 

_... lost Hydaelyn’s blessing and fell to Darkness…_

She hadn’t meant to leave Her children unattended. Though She’d tried, the passage of time was not something She understood well. The Thirteenth paid for Her lack. But there had been… 

_All Shards worship Hydaelyn?_

_So it appears._

The Unsundered. They had been close to the Thirteenth. So close. She had waited for them. She had never stopped waiting for them. She could not.

She had encouraged the Strongest of the Small to find and rescue them. Those brave souls, fickle and frail but numerous, had devised a way into the Rift, where the Unsundered had fled.

Fled?

No.

Caught. The Rift had pulled and hid them from her. They had not left Her and Her makers with full cognizance and intention.

Because the Rift was beyond Her protection, when Her creations’ creations leaked Chaos and Darkness unto the Thirteenth, She’d been powerless to stem the tide. In Her need, so many souls had been lost. 

So many.

But their sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. Though many had been lost, so too had many been gained.

They lived as intended: Small, Safe, Secure.

_When the Thirteenth fell to the void coincides with... different Shards began to traverse the Rift… reading this right? Why is it always the poetic versions that people save for centuries..._

_\--yne? Art thee alright?_

_I’m sorry, I just… I can’t describe it. I feel like…_

Sacrifice for the right cause was never in vain. 

Her children knew this to be true. 

And with that truth, there was no need for worry.

Hydaelyn reminded the littles ones, Voice and Warrior both, of Her truth. Their fears thus abated, they again understood in full Her joy and Her wish.

. ..̷̅̋͛̊̄̌̃͠͝ ̶̻̝̦̟̄̄͛̄̓͂̑̊̕̚͝ .̷̧̝͚̲̩͑͌̍̐̊̅̐̔͂̆͘͠͠ ̴̌̀́ .̸̛͂͂͒̀̽̈́͆̾͐͗̒͠. . .̷͑͌̍̐̊̅͠͠

_I feel like there’s someone we need to help. They’re lost._

_Who?_

_Someone close... . ._

**.**

**. .̴̺̗̯͂̑̓ .̴͂**

**. l̴̜̬͉͐̇͊͝ ̵̨̻̟̰̫̹̜̀.̸͈̫̳͉͒̏̒̚ ̷͕͓͌̈̊̉.̸̟͊̔̏̂̈̕o̴̢̨̗͕̪͗͂͂̊ ̶̘̙̟͖̰̞̥̌̓͂̇͗ . .̷͗̌ . . . . .**

. . . .̷͗̌̿ .̷̳̪̦̠͗̌̿̃͋͜ . . ..̵̮̯̟̭̬̟͇̽͆̐̿͘ ̶̘̙̟͖̰̞̥̌̓͂̇͗s̵͈̖͕̆̄̍̐͐͛ͅͅ ̸̪͚̺͙̝̄́̕͜ͅ t̴̛̮̤̟̳̹͇̎̋̂́͜ ̴̻͕͉̜̝͎̈̈́̍̆̒͝?̸͚̔̈́̆̑ ̵̲̒̓̑̽.̵̡̛̺̬̞͍̠̤̓͛͗̈́̚ ̶̙̈́͑͌̓̕ .̸͑̽͑͘ . .̷͗̌̿ .

. .̷͗ . . .

. . .

“G’raha! I was hoping I’d find you here.”

“-- You’ve good timing! I was just about to head back to the Burn.”

He spun on a heel toward her. Though she couldn’t see it, she heard how his smile stretched ear-to-ear. 

Everything in him radiated hardwon contentment. It was clear to her that being back on the Source and out from under the Exarch’s mantle was good for him. Even if he suffered the occasional bout of wistfulness for the First, all of them did. More telling was that he, in a fashion also true to them all, was happy to dive into the new mysteries of Hydaelyn’s startlingly long reach across Shards and, on a potentially related note, the unknown vessel. 

It was, according to Cid, definitely _a hell of a ship_. As far as he and his team had gathered, it was meant for traveling beyond the sky as they knew it and across the stars. Unlike with Omega, which was the closest they had to a similar situation, the ship had clearly been outfitted to carry living passengers. Y’shtola didn’t pretend to understand the Omega situation, but after so long adventuring with the Warrior of Light, she’d experienced stranger things than space-faring peoples. She was more concerned about the fact that none of them _remained_ in their fancy ship; or, if a disaster had forced them out, that none of them saw fit to discuss the situation with the locals.

On G’raha’s back pulsed the faint aetherial coil of a large, lengthy beast. By its signature alone, she couldn’t tell if it was newly dead, or merely stuck in a stasis similar to the Allagan creatures in the Tower.

Stopping before him, she took a stab at guessing which it might be. “With that? Whatever for?”

“I’d hoped to have Cahsi and Emet-Selch take a look at it,” he said after a pause that told her the creature was definitely in a sack of some kind, and that any else who looked at it would not guess it to house a monster. “I found it in the Labyrinth’s outskirts. It was clearly an Allagan creation rather than of the Voidsent. The thing is, I’m sure it hadn’t been there in our original timeline.”

“Much has changed.” Y’shtola raised an eyebrow, her tail tip twitching with absent caution. “Especially the smaller things.”

He agreed readily. “Yes, but this one… I don’t suppose you recall when a modified serpent had gotten free and attacked Ryne and I while we were in Amaurot? Emet-Selch was there, too.”

“You mentioned it. I recall the Amaurotines poking around the lower levels for some time after.”

“Precisely that. Well, what I found slithering about is the exact same serpent.” A beat. His tail swished, anxious, as he hastily corrected, “Not the _exact_ same, probably, but it-- it wasn’t a beast meant to defend the Labrynth. It’s odd that it would be out there. So, I placed it into stasis and I thought of bringing it to the attention of others who may recognize it. Especially Cahsi, as she knows best what Fandaniel did with it… Her or Ardbert, that is.”

… Hold on.

While the dots of his thinking weren’t difficult to connect, they were _far_ too unrelated to warrant such a linking.

She’d entertained stranger ideas that had been proven right, of course, but, still.

“You think it is a sign of some sort that the Amaurotines may be out there somewhere.” 

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The sack rustled as he adjusted his grip on it. 

Nervous ticks. As the Exarch, he never would have had such easy tells. On one hand, she was happy that he’d relaxed enough to show them now. On the other, his silence answered for him, and it wasn’t an answer she liked much.

She propped a hand on her hip, her ears tilting back and tail swishing with instinctive disagreement.

“Isn’t that a bit of a reach?” She tried to gentle her voice. Unfortunately, that tactic wasn’t really her strong point. “Our line of work encourages wild skepticism, but there are limits. The Labyrinth lies right outside of the Tower. When NOAH opened it for the first time, it’s not unthinkable a malfunction within the Tower’s systems would have occurred and let it slither out into the world.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed, in a reserved tone that said he wasn’t going to be convinced differently by anyone other than Cahsi herself (a frustrating stance that Y’shtola well recognized from the days _before_ Cahsi arrived on the First), “but it’s best to be sure. In any case, what was it that you needed to speak to me about? I fear my transport to the Burn will soon arrive, and he can be quite fussy about having to wait.”

Emet-Selch, hm?

That made her concern an easy topic to broach, at least.

“Fussy might be a gross understatement,” she said, and felt her expression flatten. She didn’t mean to sound distant, but-- well. The topic required a logical approach. Anything else demanded they abandon their foolhardy attempts at making longterm peace with an Ascian. “You know of our general intention to retain him as a resource for the Scions.”

Another slight pause. He hadn’t expected that.

But he played along with good humor. 

“Considering I’d been present for the final vote to ideally achieve as much, yes. If he doesn’t disappear on us, or any other number of poor decisions that he can be prone to.”

“And it’s safe to say you and he have grown rather close?”

A longer pause. He wanted to deny that.

But he couldn’t. 

“Within a certain understanding of ‘close,’ I suppose so.”

“You would tell us if he meant to stand against our interests once again?”

Surprise. This time, he didn’t pause. 

That, more than his answer, reassured her.

He said, “Of course,” in such a way as to be, from anyone else, heavy affront at her implication. “But as I said when we discussed this, I don’t think it’s likely at present. I’m sorry, has something occurred that led you to believe--?”

As much as she occasionally wished there _was_ something, she waved a hand before her face to clear the worry before it rooted too deeply in his mind. If she were honest with herself -- and she tried her best to be, even if she didn’t always share her conclusions with the others -- her concern laid with (and _for_ ) G’raha, not Emet-Selch. Her concerns had existed in Amaurot, and while they’d waned somewhat since, they resurfaced when she saw how close the two sat by the fire on the night of their arrival at the Burn encampment. Combined with Cahsi’s recollection of their stop in Azys Lla and how G’raha was apparently taking solo trips around the world with Emet-Selch, she couldn’t help but wonder.

Oh, it was definitely an unfair line of thought. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about it, other than wary. When she’d shared the edges of it with the others, Thancred had told her, again, that she was too hard on G’raha for his mistake in pulling them to the First.

But Thancred had his own blindness when it came to Ascians, including an inability to imagine that they might actually prefer one mortal over another. 

She just hoped G’raha understood what trouble he courted.

She said, “No, not at the moment. Consider it… a feeling. Like what you have with that serpent.” 

“Then I’m sure it’s nothing,” G’raha murmured, his words touched with discomfort. “Was that all you had to discuss with me?”

“At the moment,” she repeated, a small smile pulling up the edges of her lips. As her seriousness eased, he relaxed. She could almost taste the difference in the air as the tension between them dispersed. “If he ever does, as you put it, make a poor decision, I hope you know we would be there for you.”

“Ah,” he floundered with a different, more harmless kind of awkward discomfort, “well. Yes. I appreciate you saying so, but I really don’t think it will be necessary. Whatever ‘it’ is, because, er, I’m not entirely sure what you could be referring to, but I’m positive that lack is due to my own misunderstanding and not, um, your kind sentiment, which, as I said, is very appreciated. -- Oh, look at the time. I must be off. It was nice talking with you, Y’shtola!”

“And with you, G’raha. Take care. I’ll see you again soon.”

“Absolutely!”

He all but dashed around her in his escape. Though she was certain he had more poise than to tuck his tail between his legs as he went, the image was there. 

That, far more than his words, told her that he knew very well what he was doing. She hoped he had better luck at figuring out his feelings on the matter than she did.

**. . .**

“What has you in a fluster?”

“-- Hm? Oh, I’m late. I apologize. I was just thinking.” When Emet-Selch tilted his head with inquiry, the Exarch jerked a thumb back at the burlap upon his back and smiled an unconvincing _rest-assured-it’s-nothing_ smile. “On my return to Revenant’s Toll from the Tower, I found this serpent wandering the Labyrinth.”

They stood atop the woman Rowena’s building, on the uppermost balcony. The Exarch stopped next to his spot by the railing, where he’d been passing the ever-so-slow march of time with absent people-watching. Unfortunately, even after learning it played host to the Scions' newest headquarters, Revenant’s Toll remained as dull as he remembered. Maybe it would have been slightly more entertaining if he could’ve thought about anything other than how he’d warned the Exarch he wouldn’t be an on-demand transport but was now acting the part of an on-demand transport, or how he’d rather be sleeping, investigating the spaceship, or, even better, sleeping in the spaceship. 

_Or_ \-- though not ‘even better’ or ‘even worse,’ but in fact ‘very much worse'-- he could be restoring Amaurot at the bottom of the First’s Tempest. 

He’d ensured the crumbled city was still there once the Scions had stopped tracking his every movement, which meant he had to wait until their little group had set off to do the rounds at Ishgard. To his great relief and greater disappointment, Amaurot was just where it had always been. It hadn’t looked any different from the first time he’d discovered it: half-buried in rock and rot, and entirely too beautiful to be left alone.

Hence, he visited twice more. Once to stew on Tiamat’s words regarding inescapable sorrows, and once more to tend his wounded pride in peace after Hydaelyn had caught him asleep and unaware at the Exarch’s side.

(While Her putrid presence well covered every Shard, at least She seemed to temporarily lose track of him when he crossed the Rift.)

On his original first visits, Elidibus had warned him off visiting their abandoned home without good cause. In hindsight, it had been an astute recommendation that he should have followed, at least until their kin had returned or until he’d found the proper audience to share their story with. He’d poured too much time and energy into managing a city for one. It had bordered a sick obsession. And, as he’d been harshly reminded in six short months, its shades had been little more than a rosy mockery of his people.

But now, Elidibus wasn’t here. 

No one was here.

He knew now the shades to be the bad ideas that they were. But the city itself? The streets, the lights, the spires? If he couldn’t sleep, he needed _something_ to do. Recreating it seemed a fine way to pass the time, especially while its thriving splendor was fresh in his memory at its happiest height and not its final whimper.

And even empty, the city more than rivaled Revenant’s Toll. When he looked down on the markets and noticed how the small, plain guards patrolled their plain town in plain platemail and plain swords, in protection of their plain little lives...

Hells below, he dozed off just watching them.

At least the Exarch was only ten minutes late.

While he was sure the something that had kept the Exarch was the same thing which put the distracted expression on his face, he was equally sure it wasn’t the overgrown snake in the bag. He designed to not bring up that obvious point just yet, as the Exarch loathed being backed into conversational corners.

He said, “If my memory serves correct,” and it did, “there were plenty of serpents in that maze.”

“At least originally, this one hadn’t been there. The strange thing is, this one looked just the same as one that attacked us in Amaurot.”

So sluggish had his thoughts become and so dreamlike did Amaurot feel, Emet-Selch took a moment to remember what he referred to.

Once he did, he straightened from the stone railing, a vague frown drawing his face downward. “Is that so? Let me see.”

The Exarch passed him the bag. Stepping closer, taking it and peering within, the serpent coiled within -- arrested by a sound temporal stasis, which was a fairly impressive spell for the Exarch to manage on the fly -- indeed matched the creature he recalled slithering from behind a raggedy couch and lunging toward Hydaelyn’s favored in a flash of too many eyes and venom-drenched fangs.

Based merely on its form, it offered no grander story than a coincidental resemblance. He could inspect its aether, but he was unsure of the reward it would yield. Without more, he felt little incentive to expend the energy.

And so he passed the bag back. The Exarch took it and slung it again over a shoulder. He also took a step back, to put them back to an arm’s length distance.

“In this time as the time before, did you not open the Tower some months ago? Perhaps it escaped then.” 

“... You think it a mere coincidence.” The Exarch sighed on his next exhale, his tail swishing behind him in open disappointment. That he _was_ let down amused Emet-Selch, if only vaguely. “I’m not as sure. Were we ever informed of what Fandaniel did with it?”

“She dissected and categorized its parts as necessary for educational purposes. And then she did _not_ do the same to every other beast in your collection, as you became quite sentimental over losing the creatures.”

Though his expression did not change, his tail betrayed his desire to glare as it swished harder behind him.

“And then what did she do with that knowledge?” he returned, levelly. 

Always so poised, wasn’t he.

Frown disappearing, Emet-Selch took back the space between them with one step. The Exarch’s tail quit lashing, his eyes widening slightly as he tilted his head back to keep their gazes locked.

Idly, keeping his own expression even, Emet-Selch dropped his voice and murmured, “Turned it over to the appropriate research department, I imagine. While its exact composition was unlike anything they might have seen before, its underlying principles and purpose were fairly straightforward. It would have lost its academic luster in short order, even had they not had larger concerns. What did you expect me to say, Exarch, if not this?”

 _Did you intend to give me hope?_

If he did, it was an unintentional, subconscious impulse. The Exarch was not so cruel.

Breaking their eye contact to look away, he muttered, “I thought it peculiar, is all,” as the entirety of him held very, very still.

“Coincidences usually are.” He swayed into the other’s space under the guise of peering again at the bag. “If you think it worth investigating further, then I shall. But not here.”

The hem of his robes brushed the Exarch’s legs. He’d taken to wearing boots, a long sleeved undershirt, a tabard. Leggings. Gloves. Minus the golden staff on his back, it was altogether an average adventurer’s ensemble, meant to require little maintenance and last in all sorts of weather. 

A shame. His other garb had been more fitting. More regal.

“-- Before we go.” Emet-Selch leaned back, surprised to find the Exarch’s eyes not only on his again, but narrowed in apparent determination. “I’ve another question best discussed here, away from prying ears.”

Curious.

“Ask it, then.”

“What do _you_ expect me to do with all of this?”

A blink.

Jaw set, shoulders tensed as though readying for a blow, his nose scrunched with displeasure or distaste or, perhaps, both and neither. 

Somewhat perplexed, Emet-Selch tilted his head.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

A flush crept up his neck. Emet-Selch watched its progress with honest fascination.

That was one positive to the tired drag of his sleepless thoughts: he had no energy to spare for complex ponderings. As things happened, he addressed them, and not a moment sooner. 

(Technically he could keep up without sleep for all existence. He personally gave himself a century before he followed Lahabrea’s path into madness.)

“You mock--” A sharp stop, a quick inhale sucked between gritted teeth. As they had been down that am-I-aren’t-I-mocking-you road plenty of times, Emet-Selch appreciated the evidence he listened and learned. “The flirting. With me.”

A second’s silence.

Another.

Emet-Selch waited for him to continue.

He did not. In fact, he only grew redder in the face, such that he began to match his hair.

“Yes?” He prompted at last, when it looked like the Exarch’s embarrassment might begin to steam out of his ears if left to stew for any longer. “What of it?”

To his mild surprise, his face pinched tighter. 

“What do you _expect?_ ” was the question, repeated with a touch more force.

“Ah.” That was an easy question. Yes, it was a good thing they had privacy for this discussion, wasn’t it. The Scions and Warrior of Light as a whole tended toward overreaction. “Have I been too subtle? Do you wish me to spell it out?”

“Perhaps I do,” he said-- then, immediately, hands flying up in quick denial, his tough act crumbling, “-- actually, no, I don’t. You haven’t been subtle in the least.”

“Thank you.”

“That isn’t necessarily a compliment.”

“It is when dealing with you, as I’ve learned that you can be remarkably oblivious.”

That, at least, interrupted his embarrassment with a frown and half-baked protest.

“ _Pardon?_ ” He sputtered, shuffling away until his back hit the railing, ears pinning and tail puffing slightly. The bag he dropped to the ground next to him, so that he might cross his arms. “Please! I would need to be absolutely senseless to miss _your_ advances. Even if I were entirely crystal, I think I would know what you intended.”

“If you were entirely crystal, I would intend nothing,” he replied, amused. “Though I admit I began to wonder if you were not cold as stone in mind, if not flesh.”

His flush lightened to a pretty pink.

Again, he looked away.

Emet-Selch resisted, barely, the urge to step forward and turn his face back.

After some time, he admitted, voice low, “I… was surprised.”

“You don’t say?”

The quip got him to turn his face back, as well as a glare. Familiar, comfortable territory. Emet-Selch did not hide that he reveled in the reaction, as he met the Exarch’s annoyance with a slow smile.

The Exarch said, “ _Yes_ , really. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Well. Now you do.”

His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. His teeth caught on an edge after, worrying at it as his eyebrows drew together and his gaze dropped in thought.

Emet-Selch watched him think, and kept still.

True indulgence took time. Few agreed with that. Emet-Selch counted himself among the dissenters on certain days and at certain times; but with this, patience was the only route guaranteed to yield anything of worth. Any _one_ , rather.

Eventually the Exarch’s attention rose from the middling ground and resettled on Emet-Selch. It traveled from his waist to his chest to his mouth to, at last, his eyes. It stuck, the Exarch’s ears wavering in from an uncertain, backwards pin, to forward, and back again. His hands, where they had flattened against the railing wall, flexed. His mouth parted, then closed, his teeth clicking.

Proper indulgence took time, but seldom did it survive a thorough thinking-through.

Stepping slowly to close the distance between them, Emet-Selch gave him plenty of time to make a denial or departure.

He did not.

At last taking that chin in hand and tilting it up, Emet-Selch gave him plenty of time to swat him away.

He did not.

When he leaned down, he half-expected the Exarch to push him back. Certainly, he could count on one hand the number of times his close proximity had been openly welcomed.

He did not.

By all standards, the kiss was chaste. 

His lips were soft. His breath hitched, a sharp inhale-and-hold that was, put simply, sweet. He radiated warmth, the concentrated aether in his arm a familiar hum in the back of Emet-Selch’s awareness. It -- not just the crystal but the whole of him, to include his spark of a soul -- inspired a low-burning hunger in him. 

Patience though he had aplenty, that didn’t mean he always _liked_ it.

It turned out his hair was as soft as expected when Emet-Selch slid his hand to cup the back of his head, the strands parting easily before it began its braid. His other dropped to the Exarch’s waist, and there he privately marveled at how it narrowed, slight as he was. 

Hands not his own curled in his lapel. Light though the grip was, the slow drag down was unmistakable, and so he parted his mouth to best deepen--

A spell broke.

Not his own. He wouldn’t have trusted his magic at a time like this, distracted as his tired mind was. But he knew the feel of a spell ending before its time, a little snap of ozone upon his tongue as nearby aether broke free from its unnatural restraints. 

Hissing.

Struggling.

“-- _Really?_ ” the Exarch muttered against his lips, indignant. He leaned back as well as he was able, gaze snapping to the bag at their side. The flush that dusted his cheeks and nose were no longer born from embarrassment, Emet-Selch was pleased to see, while his mouth was distinctly redder than before. His eyes, typically sharp, had a distracted haze. “I thought-- _really_ now. What timing.”

All in all, the Exarch was a sight he very much wanted to pursue further. 

Accordingly, as far as Emet-Selch’s current priorities went, the snake ranked somewhere between ‘less than’ and ‘everything else.’ Emet-Selch would have them ignore it entirely, but the Exarch was of a different mind.

Rather than do the sensible thing of dropping the bag over the balcony and resuming where they left off, the Exarch ducked under Emet-Selch’s arm, carefully snagged the bag by its top, and started channeling his aether into another stasis spell.

While the spell didn’t take him long, it was clear by its end that the Exarch had remembered where they were, what they were doing, and how little he probably wanted to do it anywhere that someone he knew might see. He straightened with the again-still bag over his shoulder, a hastily cleared throat, a glance at Emet-Selch’s bemused face, _another_ glance that lingered on his mouth, and another hastily cleared throat, his eyes darting away.

“We should, ah,” he said, voice stumbling, “return to the Burn as we said we would.”

“I promised nothing of the sort,” Emet-Selch returned, and took a step forward, “and I believe they would not begrudge you a belated arrival.”

In time with his approach, the Exarch made a quick retreat.

“Be that as it may,” he said, “it would be for the best.”

Staring back at him, taking in his evasive and curled-in posture, was when Emet-Selch realized they really were going to... stop. They were going to leave, and they were not going to speak of this, and the Exarch would pretend nothing had happened or, much worse, devolve into over-thinking about it all and talk himself into thinking it mattered a great deal, when it-- …

When it didn’t.

…

Hm.

That wasn’t the thought Emet-Selch expected.

Perhaps he, too, needed to re-evaluate.

“This conversation is not finished,” he warned the Exarch, even as he summoned the portal necessary to get them where they were oh-so- _expected_. 

As the Rift gate opened below their feet, the Exarch’s eyes jumped up to his.

He protested, “That was hardly a _conversation_ ,” which was patently wrong and didn’t deserve a rebuttal, and so Emet-Selch finished his summon, took tight hold of the Exarch’s shoulder (the one without the stupid snake), and pulled them both through it.

**. . .**

A huge, burlap bag dropped ominously an ilm from Cahsi’s nose was not generally how she liked to be woken from her midday snooze.

But neither was it the first time. Unlike the first (or second, or third) time, a cheerfully smiling face was attached to the delivery. 

The camp had been relocated without much trouble to the flattest stretch of land close to the downed ship. ‘Not much trouble’ still meant a half-day’s worth of monster-fighting, so she’d stumbled back to their camp and fallen asleep on a pilfered pillow outside of their sleeping tent, as the inside got very stuffy and the sun cast a fine shadow on one side anyway. 

Across the way, she spotted a blurry shadow that was probably Emet-Selch ducking into the main engineering tent. A tense knot in her stomach that she hadn’t noticed but which she suspected had been there all day relaxed at knowing where he was, and where he’d likely remain, as the tent had the replicator in it. Its transfer had been successful thanks both to an Ascian’s ability to ignore gravity and Greta’s ability to haul a very large trailer.

Fumbling out her glasses, she did her best to refocus on the one in front of her.

“Hi and, uh, welcome back, G'raha.” Before she slipped her glasses on, she rubbed hastily at her sandy -- both literal and sleep-based -- eyes, trying to wake up quick and stifle a yawn, “what’s with the bag?”

He tore his eyes back to her from where they’d drifted, which was— the engineering tent? Had Emet-Selch made a face at her? Whatever it was, it dimmed the smile on his face, as his barely contained enthusiasm dipped into contemplation. 

But then she asked her question, and wherever his mind had wandered, it snapped with unerring focus back to her.

Immediately what distracted him was a second thought. She’d noticed him doing that before -- re-prioritizing whenever she entered the picture, regardless of what he’d been doing -- and while it didn’t sit well with her, it wasn’t something she could very well begrudge him.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said, obviously fighting hard to keep his returning excitement down, “but I discovered this in the Labyrinth, and I was hoping you’d give it a closer look. It looks a lot like that serpent Fandaniel took from the Tower.”

“Serpent…?”

“The one that attacked Ryne and I and, also, Emet-Selch.”

“Oh.” She supposed she remembered that. At the time, she’d been more focused on trying to convince Eris to leave the still-contained beasts alone, as the idea of them being taken for ‘study’ and slaughtered en masse had obviously upset G’raha. “Okay. Sure. Let me get some coffee first, then, um… I can take a look!”

At her slightest hesitation, he began to backtrack. “Not that you must at this very moment, of course. I was _very careful_ with its stasis spell this time around; it should hold for a week at least, so if you’ve any other business--”

“No, it wouldn’t take long at all, and I’m happy to help! … What am I helping with, exactly?”

“It’s a feeling I had, really, nothing more. I might have gotten a little overexcited to show you, now that I think about it. Did I interrupt your nap? I’m sorry, I hadn’t thought.”

“I was going to wake up soon anyway,” she lied, and stretched. “Am I looking to see if Eris made this? Our Eris?”

At that he obviously lit up, yet still restrained himself to a single nod. “Yes, exactly. It wasn’t where it should have been, but it _was_ somewhere I was guaranteed to eventually find; and, moreover, it’s definitely the same serpent as the one she took.”

Hand dropping to her chin as she scrutinized the sack, she said, “That’s definitely a peculiar coincidence. Which in our line of work usually means...”

“... It’s no coincidence at all.”

“Exactly!”

G’raha’s grin, somehow, grew wider, his tail swinging side-to-side with excited interest.

Perhaps roused from the noise, the tent flap opened next to them, and a mussy-haired, sleepyheaded Ardbert peered out, his eyes squinted against the afternoon sun.

He asked, “What’s with the bag?”

Cahsi winced. Coincidentally echoing each other in word and deed was _always_ weird.

“Sleeping serpent,” she said.

With a look of hazy confusion, “Should I get my axe before it wakes up?”

“No, no, it’s probably better alive. But maybe later.”

“I put it into stasis,” G’raha supplied. “It might be Eris’ creation.”

“Oh.” His confusion increased, but he, as any good adventurer, seemed down to roll with it. “Okay. Sure.”

Cahsi winced again, then decided she was done replaying the last few minutes on repeat and stood up.

“Let me go get that coffee,” she told G’raha, “then we can set up shop in, uh, well, our tent should work fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely. It’s got walls, doesn’t it? And a table! And it’s a pretty big snake. I think we’d notice if it slithered into one of our bedrolls.”

“I’ll prepare a space just in case,” Ardbert muttered, and started to retreat back into the tent.

Before he could, a call of, “Good, you’re awake!” that was aimed in their direction stopped him.

All three turned to see Cid approaching them, not from the direction of the engineering tent but from where everyone had spent the better part of the day unloading trucks. He looked sweaty, exhausted, and elated, with the biggest emphasis on sweaty. The area was much sandier and hillier than their original camp spot, which made traversing about a little more difficult without slipping and sliding down scaldingly hot mini-dunes.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything. We’re doing our first proper dive into the vessel,” he said by way of greeting, stopping only once he was within the tent’s shade, “and we’d like you three to lead the way. The goal is to get a good idea of how much _ship_ we’re dealing with when we try to excavate it, and if there’s any special hazards my team needs to watch for when we head in after you. Feel free to bring along anyone else that can avoid falling down open ventilation shafts. On second thought, someone who can fit into ventilation shafts might be helpful.” 

“Is this how we do ‘hello’ now, Cid?” Cahsi protested, without heat. “You give me an assignment and tell me to get going?”

He cracked her a smile. “I thought it’d be more efficient. Well, what do you say?”

“My stomach needs fuel, and Ardbert needs to wake up,” Ardbert made a noise vaguely resembling a complaint about that particular characterization, which proved her point, “but then we’re in. How about you, G’raha? -- The serpent’s stasis will hold for a week, you said?”

Because even if she did discover something about Eris attached to it… There wasn’t much they could do immediately with it, was there? 

She didn’t want to say it aloud, but she saw the same understanding in G’raha’s face when he nodded. 

The prospect of exploring a ship with her was also, most likely, a big incentive. 

His earnest enthusiasm for adventure was brave, inspiring, and absolutely charming. That he pinned his enthusiasm for adventure _on her_ was heartening and overwhelming in equal measure, and definitely something they needed to address… eventually. When she could figure out how to talk about it without making it sound like he did something wrong or that she was really, _really_ arrogant, which was pretty difficult, as the core of the problem was absolutely the single-minded hero-worship. 

Privately, she just hoped he’d realize that he was as much a hero as she could ever be. 

He’d waited so long on her. Now, he didn’t have to. 

Deaf to the roads Cahsi’s thoughts ran along, G’raha agreed about the snake. “It can certainly wait. The ship’s more exciting.” 

“I’ve got a trunk with a lock you can store it in,” Ardbert offered. 

“That’d be great, thank you.”

Cid glanced between them all and the bag, visibly decided he didn’t want to ask, and clapped his hands together. “Alright! Half a bell, and I’ll see you at the door. Oh, as a warning: we’re pretty sure the ship’s stuck on its side. You’ll probably be walking on walls more than the floors.”

“Nothing can ever be easy,” Ardbert and Cahsi said at the exact same time, paused, shot a look at each other in tandem, winced, and, finally, went to get ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yowzah, that was a lot!! i tried to slice this chapter up but it all wanted to happen at once. hope you enjoyed!
> 
> as always, find me at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter; or, if you are here for the emet-selch/graha ship, feel free to check out Jackaloping (my awesome beta!!) and I's dedicated (sfw and nsfw) ship twitter at [exselchfanclub](https://twitter.com/exselchfanclub) ;P 
> 
> thank you for reading, and any and all commentors! <3


	6. Chapter 6

In a change of pace from their usual unintentional disasters, the ship was deserted.

“I was hoping for the chance to stretch our legs,” Alisaie admitted after Ardbert wedged his axe into the side of yet another sliding door and pried it open and, once again, nothing jumped out at them. Getting into the rooms still took some acrobatic skill, as the doors generally hung more than three times their height above their heads and, throughout their jumping-and-climbing-and-falling, they had to juggle the three glowing crystals Cid had given them that acted as their lights. Luckily, the original creators weren’t too fond of wall ornaments. 

“Careful,” Alphinaud warned, “fate might be listening.”

“Let it. I didn’t bring my sword for looks alone.”

Behind the door was what appeared to be a command room, tilted sideways and in smooth white. Rows of round-edged desks topped with clear glass were paired with huge chairs bolted to the floor. At a glance, Alphinaud guessed there were around thirty chairs in total. All fixtures were arranged in a tight, lecture-like circle around a massive silver orb set deep in the middle of the floor. Just as the other rooms, everything was comically large. But, as Alphinaud mentioned at the half-way point through the ship’s interior, if they imagined they were Allagan or Amaurotine sized, it was actually quite the cozy fit.

Because the ship was in every way _very dead_ , including the stale, still air, it felt plenty cozy even for their size.

According to Alphinaud’s roughly recorded map, the ship’s many hallways circled the command room. In between those hallways were, as far as they could tell: three rooms devoted to stasis; two rooms devoted to storage of metal crates containing who-knew-what; one room devoted to plantlife, though because it lacked plants and life in general, it was more a guess based on Alphinaud’s hazy awareness of hydroponic gardens; and five rooms that were, to all appearances, blank. In the end, the ship made a filled-in horse-shoe shape, with the command center in the middle and a bite taken out of the back. Alphinaud theorized the engines were in the back, and weren’t reachable from the inside.

“Based on what we’ve recorded, this should be the last room,” Alphinaud noted as they clambered in with minimal accidental elbowing and tumbling. “It seems fitting that it appears to be the command center.”

Glancing around once they were safely past the door’s threshold, G’raha glanced around and noticed an outermost chair within jumping distance. 

He eyed it, made a mental calculation, and leapt for it.

He latched on and, with a yelp, was swung head-over-heels off it as it swiveled under his momentum. Falling onto the desk in front of it, he scrabbled for purchase along its smooth glass, found a grip impossible to maintain with his gloves, slid off, and plopped back into the chair, which slammed to a stop.

It all happened in the span of three topsy-turvy seconds. He heard a few amused guffaws from below (Alisaie and Cahsi were both likely culprits), as well as a sincerely appreciative _that’s one way to get up there! Nice initiative!_ from Ardbert.

He gave them a wave of the hand over the chair’s side to show he was alright, laughing a bit himself once he regained his wits.

“If it worked for him,” definitely-Alisaie said, followed by the unmistakable sound of her following his bad example of leaping for a chair, except, fortunately, doing it better. 

She let out a whoop when she reached her chair, immediately standing upon its back and only swaying _slightly_ as it wobbled. The others joined them in short order in chairs of their own, though Alphinaud needed a careful, precariously-balanced hand-up from Cahsi.

Once they each had a seat (with legs dangling up, strange as it was somewhat fun), Alphinaud took out his book to continue their makeshift map of the rooms they traversed through while the rest took a better look at what those who originally made the ship would have seen.

On second glance, it was no less impressive of a set-up. Their lights cast wide, boxy shadows on the walls from the fixtures. The room’s lines themselves were clean and precise, with only the barest layer of dust covering the smooth, metallic surfaces. The orb in the middle looked important. It probably would have done something incredible, had it any power.

Thinking the same, Alphinaud said into their collective hush, “If only we’d found the ‘on’ switch, I’m sure this would be quite the sight.”

“Everything appears to be in working order,” G’raha noted, idly patting the edge of the desk that he could just barely reach from back in the seat. “With the right jolt, it might even be convinced to move again.”

“Can you imagine? Cid says this might have once been capable of travel through outer space.”

“We’ve got our hands full with just whatever Star we’re on,” Ardbert said. “Do we really need to add the moon to our list of trouble?”

G’raha tried not to beam _too_ much. “I, for one, hope we may.”

“Cid’s going to be jumping for joy at what we’ve got to report,” Cahsi said. “I bet he’ll get this up and running in no time, now that we know nothing with five rows of teeth and a bad attitude made this place a home. From there, we’ll have to see where it takes us.”

Propping her hands on the desk’s edge, Alisaie leaned forward to get a better look at the orb.

When the desktop lit up in a burst of yellow, she fell back with a startled shout.

The glass proved itself an interactive screen. In normal lighting, it likely would have been relatively dim; for them, it was bright as the sun. Above a blue circle, deep red text of a language unknown blinked slowly in the middle. In the upper right corner, an empty box and thick, flat line blinked in time with the text.

“That’s ominous,” Alisaie remarked, one hand to her chest as she tried to regain her breath, her eyes stuck at _wide as dinner plates._ “Did I activate a self-destruct?”

“If it were, it’s very poorly placed!” Alphinaud stood on his own chair so as to get a good look at her desk. “But your talk is most certainly inviting bad luck.”

The others hastily stood to do the same. Unfortunately, none of them had any better guesses to give. The text matched the replicator’s, but of the singular soul who had a prayer of understanding it, neither he nor his bare-bones efforts at a translation guide were present.

In what seemed like no time at all, the screen faded again to transparent nothingness. The room felt darker for its loss, and not merely in the literal sense.

Curious despite herself, Alisaie again balanced on her chair’s back and tapped the desktop with her hand.

Again, the screen flickered on. 

She stared at its blinking text, then glanced at her companions. “Is it only mine? You guys try.”

They did. 

Ardbert’s and Alphinaud’s turned on to the same yellow screen. After a moment, Cahsi and G’raha speculated their gloves to be the problem, and removed them to try again. 

Cahsi’s flicked on without trouble. Unlike theirs, no ominous red text blinked on her screen. Instead, it boasted only the blue circle, empty box and line.

G’raha hissed as a spark jumped between his crystal hand and the glass before his too lit up, albeit a touch brighter than the other’s.

“You alright?” Cahsi asked. “What was that?”

“I can’t say why,” he answered, though he pulled a glove back over his crystal hand even as he spoke, “but it resonated with the crystal. I’m afraid Cid will have his work cut out for him in making heads or tails of this.”

“Maybe wait a day or two before telling him about that particular quirk,” she replied with a bit of good humor, “otherwise you may find yourself trapped in here as a makeshift battery.”

“As far as confinement goes, I’ve had worse. At least he keeps decent drinks on-hand.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“That’s _some_ spirit, at least,” Alisaie mumbled. Then, louder: “We’re going to get up to that orb and give it a touch before we get the tech team in on this, right? I want to see if it reacts at all similarly.” 

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Ardbert said, and immediately began mapping a jump-route to the orb.

Unfortunately, or _fortunately_ , it remained still and silent under their touch. Even at G’raha’s crystal, it sparked once, but moved not at all.

And so they gave each other a shrug over the engineering mystery, gathered up their light crystals, and slowly picked their way back to the surface. There, Cid and his team, including Nero and Emet-Selch, waited eagerly (not including Nero and Emet-Selch, at least not overtly) for the good news that, yes, they could begin excavation as soon as possible.

**. . .**

“Alright… That’s the signal! He’s got it! Back up, everyone, and be ready with whatever you were assigned.”

In a surprising turn of events, the Elezen boy had rendered a map not so poor as to be useless. The shape buried under a half-mile of sand was as promised, along with a rough estimate of its weight based on its contents. Even without a map, however, its edges shined in his mind’s eye, so different was its composition from its surrounding materials. Liquid aether sat dormant in its veins, awaiting the sign to wake. Once they had a crack at the command room, they’d see what it could do. 

Were time of the absolute essence, he could’ve simply re-orientated gravity within its halls so that they might walk it as if it were upright. Garlond had pointed out that while that sounded like a nice shortcut and he’d definitely be interested in seeing what Emet-Selch could do with maximizing walking-space capacity on an airship with similar tricks, he’d very much like to get a look at the _whole_ of it.

So, here they were. Or rather, here he was, levitating above them and pulling the ship from the sands.

When they’d discussed as a group their options for excavation, Cahsi called him their resident heavy-lifter. Cahsi then cheerily volunteered him for the job.

Cahsi was growing a little too comfortable with his complacency.

She was lucky he did actually want to know what the ship’s story was, that he’d already made himself known in full as an Ascian (an inevitability after they’d heard him talking about Baelsar), and that Garlond and Scaeva had proven themselves extraordinarily competent in mechanical matters, even if their terminology and means were often lacking. 

It took a fair amount of concentration to ensure that he didn’t leave behind even an inch of its exterior paneling. As how he expected it to look would undoubtedly reflect in any attempt at recreation in the event of broken parts, he took his time to be _careful_ and faithful to its design. That included the two dozen wires and rods stuck out what Garlond, based on Alphinaud’s notes, thought to be its rear engines. If they were melded directly into the propulsion system, it made sense the passengers within the vessel would be kept from accessing them.

Scaeva disagreed, saying it made no sense that access to the propulsion systems was impossible from the interior. He thought the rear opening to be for aerodynamic purposes. 

Personally, Emet-Selch agreed with Scaeva that no engines were back there. Before Scaeva could prematurely crow about Garlond’s miscalculation, he then pointed out that Scaeva’s reasoning was horrifically short-sighted, as the ship had clearly not been meant for travel within an atmosphere and, anyway, the chunk in the back was far too deep into the bottom hull to help wind resistance. That set Scaeva and Garlond to arguing with him about what sort of people would ever make a ship that lacked the capability to land planet-side in an emergency, except that was so far off the mark of what they were discussing, since this ship had not intended to land planet-side or else it wouldn’t have been buried side-ways in the middle of a nowhere desert. 

Garlond then accused him of not listening to their fine points. In charitable response, Emet-Selch proposed they shelve the whole debate and get their people ready, because he was going to excavate it within the hour and _then_ they could see who was right about what.

Though Garlond made a lot of noise about an hour-- or rather, a bell-- not being long enough, he, Scaeva, and their team were at their stations just as planned once Emet-Selch finished identifying what needed excavating, and how to best fill in the hole left behind without leaving behind a sinkhole for one of the mortals to fall into. Once he traced its outermost shape, he was sure the mess at the rear was _not_ an engine or even turbine-- but by then, he had situated himself above the ship’s focal point and, since he refused to artificially project his voice or yell, well out of mortal earshot.

As Garlond did not have the same distaste for yelling, he heard him call out, “Careful… Careful! Are you sure you’ve identified its entirety?” 

Which was a comment that made Emet-Selch reevaluate his opposition to yelling back, though then the full of the ship’s right side breached the surface and, happily, Garlond abandoned his doubt. 

“ -- There she is! Wider than we expected. Biggs, back up! Hey, Cahsi, keep your scarf up, or you’ll be spitting up sand for the next two weeks. You too, Alphinaud!”

Tarps a good half-mile from its excavation site marked where they wanted him to place it. Based on the ropes and wheeled carts they had stacked nearby, and despite the Scion’s words to back his own, they hadn’t really believed he alone would be able to lift it up and over.

Such limited imagination was, at this moment, cute. Electromagnetic manipulation was an _enjoyable_ exercise.

Pulling it out of the sand without breaking any piece of it took some concentration. But once it was up, loose sand and clumps of heavier dirt cascading off its sides, it took no time at all to move it over to the marked area. 

Below, the mortals shouted coordination with one another. The earth buckled and grumbled as it was emptied of its gleaming prize. The Scions darted about, ensuring no one was caught in its rising wake. None of it related to him, and so he blocked it from his mind.

The ship took his concentration not for its weight, but its craftsmanship.

Time and time, he’d built nations from the charred bones of forgotten civilizations. With it came cultural and economic patterns immutable. Certain principles were unfailing; some roles, undeniable; and specific motivations, universal. It was the science of the people, and he’d learned it well.

The science of engineering was even less malleable. Though exact results varied as much as imagination allowed, _optimization_ had a limit.

Emerging once more into the light was a vessel most highly optimized.

For what, he didn’t know. It boasted no obvious weaponry. Its shape lent itself for speed. By its form, it operated without a speck of magic. Its aether, that exquisitely managed power sitting idle in its pipes and panels, was too dense to categorize on first brush. But as he drew it upright and placed it gently upon solid ground, he knew: the construction went beyond his and his people’s ken.

And even still, it had suffered either battle or disaster, and _lost._

For the missing chunk in its back was just that: a missing chunk. An entire section had been crudely torn off, as though a great star-beast thought the ship a snack and had taken a bite out of it. While there _were_ doors that led to the missing areas, they had been sealed tight, and must have looked like just another wall to those mapping its interior. Whatever the cause, Emet-Selch bet that was why it had tumbled to Hydaelyn. He also imagined that was where their replicator and the myriad of other artifacts discovered through the Star’s history had come from, as the hypothetical star-beast had found the metal not to its liking and spat it out. 

Which would mean that the ship had met its match while traveling either through time, the Rift, or, hypothetically, both.

“... Slowly... Slowly! Almost there!”

“I think he’s got it handled without your constant nagging, Garlond.”

“Nero, where’s your mask?”

“I’m fine, tha--” 

Any further guidance risked crushing the ship back into the ground. Thus satisfied with its relocation, he broke his magic’s hold. Sand kicked up from its hull and the tarps, rolling over the small crowd around it in a wash of tan.

Due to his reckless proximity and continued disregard for safety equipment, Scaeva got a mouthful. He broke off his quipping to cough it back up.

The team around the ship erupted into cheers and applause for the ship’s safe recovery. While sharing in the excitement of the others, Garlond spared the time to pat Scaeva consolingly on the back. In typical fashion, Scaeva waved him off once he remembered himself and his ego-- but the sand-attack aside, they both were obviously pleased with the operation. 

Though rising curiosity demanded Emet-Selch attend to the ship _immediately_ , he picked a spot a bit back from the group to land. It also happened to be by the greatest collection of Scions: Alphinaud, Cahsi, and the Exarch, who were engaged in a discussion of their own about the recovered ship. The others could be spotted amongst Ironworks blue, or were otherwise occupied at Revenant’s Toll, continuing their studies into Hydaelyn.

“Not bad for the resident heavy-lifter,” Cahsi greeted him, cutting off her commentary to Alphinaud about how they’d been hoodwinked by the sealed doors into believing the rear area was intentionally missing. “But don’t think we missed you showing off toward the end.”

He scoffed. “Demonstrating for Scaeva the consequences of his actions is hardly what I would call showing off.”

“By your standards, maybe.” Pulling down her scarf, she gave him a happy smile. “Truly, though, thank you. You’ve saved us a lot of sweat, tears and calluses from having to drag it out ourselves.”

“And in light of the exposed area,” the Exarch added, “we might have broken its rear wall and been forced to shovel out dirt for days.”

Hm. True.

On reflection, it had been peculiar to be known for who he was, have their undivided attention on his work _and_ , at the end, not be met with ire or fear.

No, not peculiar. 

Nostalgic. 

… To a point. 

In any case, he felt no need to linger on it.

“Your approximation wasn’t too far off,” he informed Aphinaud, because that was also true. “It saved me some guesswork.”

“It was the least I could do,” the boy demurred, “lest we became lost in its halls for the whole day.”

“Though we would have been hard pressed to,” the Exarch said, “with its straightforward design.”

“Taking into consideration our lack of supplies and how touchy certain companions of ours become if they miss their mid-afternoon snack, I hadn’t wanted to chance a late return.”

Cahsi folded her arms across her chest, one foot playfully tapping. “Funny that should have concerned you, since Alisaie and I _had mentioned_ an extra meal wouldn’t have gone amiss in our supplies.”

“A good thing we were out before your stomachs began rumbling, then.”

Turning his amused gaze from them to Emet-Selch, the Exarch asked him, “Did anything stick out to you when you were pulling it up?”

“Only enough to inspire intrigue,” he replied, “and to know it will be a feast of knowledge once it’s properly examined.” Speaking of which. “I’d have us begin in the command room. I’d like to observe these screens for myself.”

“Right now?” Cahsi asked, all too eagerly. As if she too recognized its foundations as familiar even though its circumstances were strange. “We could do a... Preliminary report! Cid wouldn’t mind.”

_Yes_ , his mind begged, _yes_.

Stubbornly, not trusting the sudden, keen feeling that there was something obvious he was missing, he sealed his mouth around the word. 

“Any self-respecting investigator would mind the early contamination of nosy interlopers acting outside of protocol,” he started, even though Garlond wouldn’t mind because they _didn’t_ have protocols, they were first-come-first-grab, they didn’t truly understand how bacteria and aetherial residue spread by mere presence, and anyway, the adventuring group had already pawed all over the interior’s walls, so what did it matter?

Garlond would mind that he was left out of the initial screening. As he deserved to be, considering the effort he’d already poured into the replicator.

“Surely we can make it quick,” the Exarch said, his curiosity as obvious as Cahsi’s and, quieter, Alphinaud’s. “You could have us in and out in no time.”

“Exactly my thought!” Cahsi said. “Alphinaud? What do you say?”

“I wouldn’t say no to seeing the place again without having to climb up the walls.”

By how easily the Exarch met and held Emet-Selch’s narrowed gaze, and then by the slight raise of one of his eyebrows and lopsided quirk to his mouth as if to say _come now, don’t make this more difficult for yourself_ , Emet-Selch wasn’t doing the best at hiding his own interest, either.

“Fetch Garlond,” he said at last, presuming then that Scaeva would not be far behind, “and I will devise us a swift entrance.”

Cahsi was happy to hear his acquiescence, but as before, knew not when to stop. 

(More and more, he wondered how he’d missed her soul’s ancestor.)

She said, “Perfect! Oh, so, you’ll just teleport us in--?”

“Have you forgotten your legs, hero? I’ll craft a lift to the door, and nothing more.”

**. . .**

In the end, he Created them an exterior, solar-powered lift (with a warning that he would not repair it should they abuse or overburden it, which Scaeva thought was quite amusing) and, because their lighting crystals were little better than nightlights, strung free-floating lights along the corridors and in the rooms. The latter wasn’t a permanent solution, especially as he had to greatly limit their reach lest they bleed magic into the walls, but it served them well enough for their initial exploration.

Inside the ship, Emet-Selch focused himself on the practicality of the situation, as something in the walls… distracted him. Loudest of all was the call to the back of the ship, near the missing areas. 

He did not protest when they instead first visited the command room. It was exactly as they had described it. Deactivated orb in the middle, surrounded by chairs and desks. The desks he identified as highly advanced computers. Shockingly, the touch-screens really did still work. They must have been working off independent batteries, though the flashing symbol in the corner told Emet-Selch it was very much incapable of doing anything _except_ telling them that it had no power.

“Not that it’s too helpful even if we could read it,” Garlond grumbled when they all again investigated the desktops and made the screen light up yellow, “since I’m pretty sure I know a ‘not authorized’ warning when I see one.”

When Cahsi wandered over to his and tapped at the screen, the text disappeared.

She and Garlond both blinked at it, then exchanged a puzzled look. 

“So what makes me different?”

The screen under Emet-Selch’s hands presented no red text, either.

Though he was sure Alphinaud and the Exarch spotted the similarity, standing as they were next to him, he said nothing.

Ere long, they departed the room and made their way around the ship.

The rooms were similarly exactly as marked. Stasis pods and sealed crates which contained, by Emet-Selch’s blind examination and guess, tubes of various raw materials. A hydroponics room. Empty rooms with panels outside their doors that were, on inspection, touch-screens. 

They reached the ship’s missing sections too soon, and not nearly fast enough.

The sundered wandered about the space, poking and prodding and talking soft nonsense about what might have happened. Under their prying hands were emergency walls that sealed off the ship from the missing pieces. 

The passengers had planned for danger, and known what to do once their fears caught up with them.

It hadn’t been enough.

“Is there something we’re not seeing?”

It took longer than expected for him to pull his attention from the knot of memories tied into the wall and refocus on the Exarch.

Whatever expression was on his face must have communicated his inability to put what he _knew_ into petty words, because the Exarch didn’t ask again.

In this place, a cautionary tale longed to be told. Unlike the rest of the ship, aether gathered thick along the walls. Residual efforts to ward off disaster. The magic used had been powerful, but uncoordinated and desperate. A last-ditch attempt to escape, and not one used lightly.

_I am become you…_

_… And we are become one._

They’d known better than to venture so close to the Rift’s edge. But in their unfettered freedom blossomed hope, dangerous and disastrous though it was. They’d grown tired of their artificial home, small and stagnant as it was. They’d thought themselves better than Hydaelyn’s Sundered. Surely, after all this time, they were better. 

The Warrior of Light stopped by his side, her expression twisted and pinched. When she bent suddenly in two, her hands clutching her head, Emet-Selch couldn’t say he was surprised. 

The others were alarmed, stopping to stare, but they knew what that meant. 

When she recovered, she straightened and gasped, stepping back, needing space, which he well understood, “Lahabrea--”

“-- Hermes and Hestia were here,” Emet-Selch agreed, “and unfettered. But no more. Not for a very, very long time.”

They stood in yet another graveyard.

How… pitiful.

“You mentioned that name before,” Garlond said, obviously angling for more information on what Cahsi saw.

Closing himself from the questions that followed, Emet-Selch left them to it. There was nothing of worth in the missing sections. It wasn’t as if they would be returning.

Whatever could be scavenged from the wreckage would be discovered only after restoring its power. That, at least, he could manage.

**. . .**

“Emet-Selch? Are you here?”

“My dear Exarch!” He sounded on the manic side of cheery, but at least he acknowledged him again. “Do come in, if you haven’t.”

Setting his traveler’s bag, packed with his standard adventuring tools plus granola, dried fruit, fish jerky, and Cahsi’s findings regarding the serpent, atop a nearby chair (which, unlike the desks, were actually the right height for them to set things on), G’raha leveled a frown at what he could see of Emet-Selch. Considering the Ascian was stuck half-way in an open panel that led to a crawl space under the command room’s main orb, that limited him to his robed legs and knee-high boots.

His voice echoed slightly when he responded. Aside from spool of loose, clear wire and three cracked crystals by his feet, nothing looked different.

“... You’re in the same exact spot as when I last saw you.”

“That wasn’t too long ago.”

“It was a morning ago.”

“ _And_ , since then, we’ve nearly worked out a solution.” 

“To the power problem?”

“Just so.” He pulled at something, and a white light sparked. It must have been nothing, as he missed nary a beat for its burst. “The issue isn’t a lack of power, you see, but ensuring we supply it in neither too great nor too little a quantity. To that end, while Garlond and Scaeva manufacture the necessary generator, I’m preparing a proper port.”

Leaning against a desk’s support strut, G’raha contemplated the scene before him.

Undaunted by the silence, Emet-Selch continued talking. 

The wiring was part black metal and part fiber optic, apparently. Everything was in remarkable shape on the surface, but the interface only responded to Unsundered souls. That obviously posed no issue for Emet-Selch, but even he had to admit the ship was built to be managed by far more than one person, and he didn’t want to push its limits in case something broke that they couldn’t replicate. The replicator was up and running, if the Exarch didn’t know (he did); it required far less energy than Garlond thought, but it was rather finicky in the quantities it produced, at times giving them half a copy and at other times a half-dozen. They were working on it.

“There’s much to be done,” Emet-Selch repeated, more to himself than the Exarch. “ _Much_ to be done. Minds like Garlond’s don’t come around often. I’d rather the bulk of the work be finished before he permanently retires.”

G’raha wondered if Emet-Selch even recalled he was still there.

He murmured, half to check, “That shouldn't be for a while yet.”

“A blink away,” was the absent reply. “Less than. A half-breath. I have the feeling he wouldn’t appreciate my offer to make him a longer-lasting vessel.”

“No, probably not.”

“Admittedly, without a soul meant for immortality, the side-effects _do_ tend toward gruesome. I’ll make an offer anyway,” musingly, “once he feels death’s hand upon his shoulder. It rarely fails to motivate. That’s a cycle you’ll learn well, Exarch, if you haven’t already.”

“I daresay I haven’t, and pray that will be a lesson long-time in coming.”

“Better earlier than later, save to feed any inclination you might harbor for masochism. Are you so inclined?”

G’raha huffed a short breath. He’d wondered himself when he’d let Emet-Selch kiss him on the balcony, but, “Not to my knowledge.”

Emet-Selch hummed. “Are you sure? I’ve compelling evidence to the contrary, considering that you yet hold a torch for your Warrior of Light despite her clear disinte--”

“Emet-Selch,” he interrupted, voice cold, “leave your hiding spot and face me while you speak, if you would.”

Indignation swept away his distant tone as he snagged the edges of the opening and dragged himself out to do as told (if only, G’raha was sure, to make sure his scowl was seen as well as heard). “I’m in the midst of _work_ , Exarch. Hardly hiding.”

“You’re in the midst of making petty remarks about mortal longevity and about whom my heart belongs to,” he returned, evenly, “which, despite the hot air it fed upon, I don’t believe has ever before supplied energy to any machine. But perhaps you might correct me on that, too? After all, I am no mechanical expert.”

Sitting up so as to better curl a lip at him in a disdainful glare, Emet-Selch fell silent.

When he remained thus for three blessed ticks of a clock, the Exarch released his own tense breath and turned toward his bag.

“I brought you dinner,” he said. “None of us will perish from old age while you take a break.”

“Have I a choice in the matter?”

“Always,” was his level reply, “but so too will there be consequences.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll inform Cid that you plan to blackmail him with his mortality to convince him to compromise his agency over his body. I don’t think he’ll take too well to that.”

Head cocking, Emet-Selch took a frustratingly long time to think over how much he cared about that consequence. Knowing even a stubborn amaro might drink if given the space and time, G’raha focused on unpacking the food from his pack. The fish jerky, he decided, was entirely for him. He needed something decent to chew on while they had this talk. Emet-Selch could Create his own if he really wanted some. 

Finally Emet-Selch stood, his back popping as he did so.

Not looking directly at him, G’raha nudged the small pouch of dried fruit toward him. Miraculously, he took it without complaint.

In the dim, formless lighting and empty rows of desks around them, the command room’s ghosts felt close at hand. He’d gotten to know a mere two Amaurotines for no more than six months, and still he wasn’t sure he’d want to remain alone in the room for long.

But then, when it came to masochism, Emet-Selch had a particular flare.

“Cahsi informed us of what the Echo showed her,” he said into the quiet, “for which I wish to offer my condolences.”

“Save yourself the breath and myself the time,” Emet-Selch dismissed. He picked idly at the fruit, not eating any of it. “Condolences have done us little good, now or then.”

“I know. But I also know silence to be worse than wasted breath.”

“Depending on whose breath...”

He interrupted, “Must you play with your food? Are you not hungry?” and stepped closer, so as to stand side-to-side. Emet-Selch did not move away, though his eyes shifted to peer side-long at him.

He said, an unenthused murmur, “I have no need for it.”

“Hythlodaeus,” and though he felt how his companion stiffened, and saw how he picked apart a piece of dried mango, tearing it neatly in two, he continued as if he hadn’t noticed at all, “told us that while it isn’t necessarily required for maintaining the body, it’s a fine habit to have.”

“Considering his _fine_ habit of having a big mouth, you shouldn’t believe everything he says.”

Emet-Selch cut into his own final word with a sharp stillness.

Taking a moment to consider, G’raha drew in a small breath of his own, then continued as before, “Pray tell, was he wrong?”

“... No.” Quietly. “Infuriatingly, no. Not in that, and not in most other matters.”

With one foot, G’raha prodded at his shin. 

“Then eat, please.” 

In the corner of his eye, he saw Emet-Selch’s slight pause before he, at last, picked up one of his torn pieces and did as bid. 

Before silence again descended or Emet-Selch evaded by insulting the food’s quality, he spoke. 

“As I said. I’m sorry. It can’t be easy.”

“In one particularly short life in a town which held the firm belief that a youth’s living sacrifice was the only way to stall an encroaching storm, I was left to rot in a box at the bottom of the sea,” he replied, “while fish ate my flesh from my bones and my heart from my chest. I’d sooner relive that senseless ending a thousand times than again feel my dying brethren’s anguish, and know it too late for me to help.”

There wasn’t anything he could say that would change that.

And yet…

“Is it?”

“Is it what? Too late?” Emet-Selch scoffed. “For those who were once _here_ , indisputably, yes. For others, also indisputably, yes. Powerful though I am, I have not the means to bring forth Zodiark in a state capable of resurrecting my people.”

His words verged on vicious, his shoulders hunched forward and hands again tearing into his food. 

G’raha gave him a moment to recollect himself. Only once Emet-Selch begrudgingly returned to eating did he think it appropriate to speak again. 

Well aware of the landmines even as he stepped across the conversational field, he ventured, “Were we to restore its power, would this ship have a ledger of its passengers?” At Emet-Selch’s noncommittal, uninterested grumble, G’raha pressed on, “I ask because, though this ship might have been lost, Cahsi analyzed the serpent I found, and-- the one by the Tower, that is-”

Predictably, that latent viciousness converged on him. “You’re still on about that _damned snake_ when you stand on, rather than conjecture and coincidence, _physical proof_ of their survival beyond the Final Days, if only for them to meet their annihilation far from home?”

“-- And she confirmed it both pre-dated Allag and that it carries Eris’ signature.” He held firm. Their joint magic lessons had become such that he was sure he’d have, at the least, a decent head’s up before Emet-Selch attempted anything truly threatening. “As far as she could tell, in any case. She believes Eris made the creature, but entrusted its delivery to another since she knew she was bound to be Sundered. I’ve Cahsi’s notes on the subject in my bag for when you can spare the time to read them over.”

While Emet-Selch thought, his rising and warring emotions a near physical thing that choked the air around them, G’raha focused on his own food. Emet-Selch’s mood had never been the best or most stable, but recently, it felt like it leaked out through his magic in ways it hadn’t before. Either that, or G’raha had simply grown better at sensing it. He wasn’t sure. Whatever the cause, he’d rather not bring attention to and poke the metaphorical bear while it snarled and roared in his face.

Though that heavy-aether feeling didn’t disperse, Emet-Selch finally said, “What do you know, I’m on break,” and moved around him to snatch and dig through his bag.

Bound by loose twine in a hole at the top, the notes were three pages of, to G’raha, an arcanist’s nonsense scribbles. Dodo-scratch words overlaid precise geometric shapes in a jumble that he would need a week and a guide to decypher. 

Emet-Selch, predictably, had no such problem. He flipped through the three pages with a speed that left him clearly disappointed there weren’t more, before returning to the start and rereading them again.

While Emet-Selch did so, G’raha finished his jerky. Keeping it for himself had been a grand idea. When she’d passed him a bag of the stuff to take on his return to the Burn encampment, Tataru said she’d been trying out new techniques with her cooking. It’d definitely paid off. 

At length, Emet-Selch set the pages down next to the bag. Bracing himself against the chair’s edge, he leaned over the pages. Though his hair covered his face, G’raha saw how his eyes closed and his mouth pressed into a thin, pale line, his expression shuttered.

He said, voice too even-keeled to be good, “Presumably, Eris would have entrusted another immortal to deliver the creature once there was reason to believe it would reach those who might recognize it. Which meant you, Ryne, the Warriors, or myself, in a time when the Tower was rediscovered after the Seventh Calamity.”

“That was our thought, too.”

“Never one for half-measures, are you?”

G’raha blinked.

Emet-Selch continued, words almost mocking, “I hadn’t thought you capable of such cruelty, but I have occasionally been wrong before.”

“E-excuse me? What?”

“Do not…” A shuddering inhale. “... You understand the burden of hope. I cannot shoulder it. Not alone.”

He frowned. “You needn’t.” 

At Emet-Selch’s low, derisive scoff, he put himself at the other’s elbow and repeated, “Not _alone._ Surely you realize that as long as our extinction or subjugation is not a _condition_ to your people’s return, we’ve no reason not to help,” but here he paused because his voice had began to rise, and he really needed to be the one with the level head in this. Once he’d sucked in a breath through grit teeth and regained his poise, he continued, quieter than before, “In fact, we wish to help. You need only let us.”

Again, the air around them thickened with barely-contained, malevolent aether. Though the lights surely did not flicker, the shadows stretched farther along the floor and fixtures. If any ghosts haunted the ship, they must have recognized in Emet-Selch a like soul, and gathered close accordingly.

It reminded G’raha that under the Garlean facade lurked not merely a red-masked Amaurotine, but one of Amaurot’s greatest sorcerers. They’d glimpsed his true form only once, and then only for the briefest altercation before their combined magic’s corrupted intent spirited them back in time.

But no matter one’s greatness, there were always blind spots in need of outside support. G’raha knew that well.

Fortunately, he recalled that last fact moments before Emet-Selch turned and took his face in hand. Chin tilted up by a tight grasp, G’raha had no choice but to meet that golden gaze and hold it. Though uncertainty flooded him, pinning his ears and tucking his tail, he buried his trepidation. 

Searching Emet-Selch’s expression for a hint of what to expect, he saw but did not predict the other dipping low to give him another kiss. Recovering at the last second, G’raha turned his head so that Emet-Selch’s lips fell to the corner of his mouth. Something about the gesture was-- a little sick, and didn’t sit well with him.

It didn’t help that Emet-Selch murmured against his skin, “Very well. We’ll see how long it takes us to fall this time.”

That was _far_ too heavy.

Brow furrowing, G’raha turned over a few responses. None conveyed what he wanted. Finally, he pried the fingers from his chin and wrapped his other hand in the front of the other’s overcoat, tipping up onto his toes to give him an _actual_ kiss. One filled with not latent hate and despair, but promise and hope.

In it, he said, “Deal,” and with all his soul, _meant_ it.

By the faint upwards curl to Emet-Selch’s mouth, he finally caught the message.

**. . .**

The next best step was still to restore the ship to working power.

G’raha said that, yes, he understood that, but Cid was at least another week from finishing the specialized generator and, anyway, it was obvious Emet-Selch needed a real break.

While listing into his space, arms draped over his shoulders in a casual fit of closeness after their conversation moved to calmer waters, Emet-Selch accused him of blatant hypocrisy. Once upon a time, he’d spoken to those at the Crystarium about their precious Exarch, and knew well his need to be drugged into a stupor before he fell flat on his face from overexertion.

Actual hypocrisy meant arguing that being followed and researched without his consent was unnerving, so G’raha didn’t. Instead he pointed out that Emet-Selch should learn from his mistakes, then, and actually, since when did he pass up a chance to rest?

“And where might I do that?” was the aggravated response. “Everywhere I go, Hydaelyn has already staked a claim. Even here, even now, that almighty presence lingers. Mark my words, Exarch, that primal had a hand in this ship’s destruction...”

“Is she really so different from our original world?”

“By leaps and bounds, as expected for a being which has thus far existed unrivaled and unmatched.”

G’raha supposed that made sense. It was sometimes difficult to wrap his mind around, if only because Hydaelyn had always been a protector, and as far as _their_ history went, so had She continued to be. Which left the other side, Emet-Selch’s side, not a surprise, exactly, but a story he occasionally overlooked.

Finding the differences a moot point for the moment, G’raha cast his mind toward true options.Emet-Selch was growing a little heavy on his lean, and while G’raha could hold him up fine, it wasn’t exactly fun in the long-term.

Alighting upon one promising idea, he proposed, “What of my Tower?”

“ _Your_ Tower?” Amusement ruffled his hair on Emet-Selch’s next breath. “So you’ve at last accepted your claim to it.”

“And despite my elevation in status, I continue to welcome in riff-raff,” he deadpanned, “of who should brace himself.”

Though he made a questioning noise at that, G’raha didn’t give him time to voice it. Instead he pulled upon the Tower’s power, held tight to Emet-Selch, and for the first time in a long time, dragged the both of them through a portal of his own making.

To the surprise of none, teleporting across a Star’s surface was much, much easier than across universes. He’d pulled others with him through Tower-made portals in the First, when the situation was dire enough to require such a retreat. For a variety of reasons including the power and concentration necessary to do so without his passenger accidentally losing a limb, those moments had been far and few in between.

For whatever reason, it was an easier jump with Emet-Selch. Perhaps the Tower recognized him. More likely, though the crystal continued to stretch no higher than his right elbow, G’raha’s own control had grown.

At least in terms of returning to the Tower, the portal functioned as a door that led to whatever room he wanted. This time, he opened it to the smallest room in the Tower. Smallest for an _Allagan_ , of course, which made it neither claustrophobic nor dauntingly empty for him. Its walls were highly reactive to his wishes, happy to display what and where he wanted at a single thought; though it had no windows, he’d summoned a fine view of Lakeland’s Source more than once. 

It served as his inner sanctum, which was a fancy term for his bedroom. 

In truth, it was better described as yet another book room, only this time with a washtub, medicine cabinet, and pillow-filled bed. Under the bed was a small box with items that had enough sentimental value for him to not throw away, but also not enough that he could occasionally bring himself to look through them.

There was just enough clear floor space to land by the bed’s side. Once they fully manifested and the portal’s crackling gold-blue aether dissipated from around them, Emet-Selch took in the room with one sweeping look that G’raha tried not to feel _too_ self-conscious about (though he suspected the other truly didn’t intend anything by the glance), and promptly fell onto the bed, his eyes sliding shut.

Hair fly-away and limbs akimbo, he had all the grace of a dodo after attempting a swandive.

Or so G’raha told himself, his eyes averting to the Heavensward collection by instinct. It, at least, was always easy to look at.

“That was a surprisingly clean portal,” was Emet-Selch’s first comment, a musing lilt belying its sincerety. “No stomach ache, minimal vertigo. Well done.”

“Somehow, meeting your incredibly low expectations does not feel like much of a compliment,” G’raha muttered. Then, louder, “I’m going to try something. Stay here.”

Emet-Selch raised a hand and waved it in an approximation of _I wasn’t planning on it, you go on and have fun._ He made himself comfortable in the bed, utilizing far more pillows at once than G’raha thought possible for one body. Most of them he kept just to insulate him from accidentally rolling into the crystal wall and jolting awake from activating something-or-other in the Tower with his sleeping mind’s errant wishes. Emet-Selch, lacking that concern, prioritized his own comfort, even if it meant taking up all of the pillows and most of the sheets.

While he did that, G’raha picked his way over his books to the northmost wall. With a thought, a swirling blue screen appeared over the crystal.

Before, he’d made wards strong enough to keep out a Lightwarden’s army. How different could a primal be?

Very different. Very, very different.

But he tried. Fortunately, the Allagans had been as concerned about primals as anyone else, and so he had no few base connotations within the Tower’s database to draw from in the modifications. Better yet, the Tower _wanted_ to fulfill his mind’s desire, even if it hitched and stumbled on its way toward understanding what that was; and so, though he felt he hadn’t made any progress in the least, he felt the warding shift its focus from general outsiders and, instead, pin upon one outsider in particular. 

It took half a bell at least and at some point he began humming without realizing it, but Emet-Selch proved capable of minding his own business when it suited his whims, as he did not so much as budge from the bed throughout G’raha’s work.

Eventually the warding displayed the rough equivalent of what he intended. He rocked back onto his heels, tail and ears twitching as he realized he wasn’t quite sure how to guage its success.

“What did you do?”

\-- Oh. Right.

That was one way to tell.

Looking back over his shoulder at the room’s other occupant, he found Emet-Selch propped up on his elbows. A look of genuine bafflement had widened his eyes, which had in the past half-bell become sunken and bloodshot. Signs of exhaustion stretched beyond his eyes, though: his skin had a sickly white-yellow pallor, his hair fell limp upon his head, and his arms shook just from holding him halfway up. This was, he supposed, Emet-Selch’s physical form without magical intervention.

“I discovered the Allagans planned to defend their favorite generator from nearly everything,” he answered, unable to help his quiet pride from slipping into his voice, “including a direct primal attack.”

“Ah.” A pause. “That’s new.” 

Another pause. It clearly took him a moment to process what that meant.

Once his surprise abated, he flopped back to the bed and laid still, his arms thrown out at his sides and his eyes staring in wide-open vacancy at the ceiling.

Looking at the sight, G’raha felt torn as to whether he needed to vacate his own bedroom. He hesitated.

Just as he was about to leave, Emet-Selch motioned G’raha closer with one hand. He otherwise remained flat-out on the bed.

Slowly, he headed back over.

Once he reached the bed’s side, he stopped. 

Eventually he prompted, “Yes?”

“Come here,” was the quiet demand, though by the slight hitch in the middle, it became more plea than command. “If you would. Are you not also tired?”

He wasn’t, really. 

But the bed looked nice.

“I fear if I fall asleep, I might not wake for a month,” Emet-Selch continued while G’raha silently deliberated. “I slept through the Sixth Astral Era’s first century in its entirety, so don’t think it an impossibility. However, I recognize that Garlond awaits my assistance in the morn, and while Scaeva might serve as a passable substitute in the short-term, I’d rather not jeopardize our schedule. So, if you would wake me then, I would be much obliged.”

“I can assure you that I shan’t sleep more than an afternoon’s worth,” G’raha said, voice somewhat weaker than he intended as he took in the overt relief in the other’s exhausted sprawl, and how, in doing so, his own chest tightened for reasons he didn’t much want to think about.

“Then you may do as you will for the rest of the time till I need again wake.”

“How gracious of you,” spoken with soft amusement, born of the selfsame reasons he would not indulge at present. “I might also just set you an alarm. The Tower’s more than capable of that.”

“Whatever you do,” and here Emet-Selch’s eyes slid shut, his hands clasping loosely over his chest, “do it fast, please.”

G’raha climbed into the bed. 

Immediately and somewhat displaced by the mattress’ dip in weight, Emet-Selch huffed a breath of faux exasperation, peeking an eye open to note his approach and, at the same time, made room for him to curl into his side.

By the time he had his head on the other’s chest and his legs more or less comfortably arranged, Emet-Selch’s arm a warm stripe along his back with his hand upon his hip, his bedfellow had fallen sound asleep. 

Although it had looked ridiculous from the outside, G’raha found the pillow arrangement to be quite comfortable indeed. Whatever hesitation that remained in his mind about joining the other on the bed evaporated. In its wake crept relaxation, spreading through him such that his limbs grew heavy and his thoughts light and airy. The tiredness that struck him then wasn’t the usual bone-deep exhaustion that typically drove him into a bedroll, but rather, the happy lethargy of a day’s work well-done.

The Tower felt again a little less empty. There were no immediate threats to either he or his. He had far less reason to hurry back to the encampment than his bedfellow.

In the end, he silently bid the Tower to set an alarm for the both of them. It manifested in a panel to their far left, clicking down the time in blazing red analog. 

Sleep was not too far off after that.

**. . .**

Emet-Selch woke from a deep, dreamless slumber to _the_ most obnoxious beeping in all of the Source or thirteen Shards.

It roused a violence in him that he typically reserved for Hydaelyn and her Chosen. Groaning aloud in protest, he turned onto his side, shoved his face into soft warmth, and flicked a bolt of energy in the alarm’s direction. 

With a glass-like _crack!_ that told him he’d put a little too much power behind his shove, the alarm shuttered to a miserable, sparking stop.

The body at his side jolted at its dying spark-and-screech. A small, narrow and furred ear twitched up from under his chin to swivel around, shock turning its owner rigid.

Loathe to wake after what felt like no more than a blink’s worth of rest, he shushed the miqo’te on instinct. By the gentle, carefully regulated flow of high-powered aether around him, his blurry mind wondered how he’d wandered back to Allag. In the next moment, he rightly decided it didn’t matter as much as returning to sleep, especially in an environment as safe and well-maintained as this one, with an adequately plush bed and its operational air conditioning. Intending to soothe him and his partner back to the blissful dark, he wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close--

Except, of course, he’d fallen into bed with the least sleep-prone cat of all time. 

That cat said, naked accusation in his voice as just-woke-from-sleep turned him honest, “Did you break my screen?”

“I’ll fix it later,” he murmured into silky hair. He mused woefully that no longer was he an Emperor who could order his bedmate back to sleep on a whim. At the same time, he realized the hair under his chin was still, somehow, in a braid. They were each also yet fully dressed. These were facts that were unfortunate at best, and highly displeasing at worst. “Calm yourself.”

“That was the alarm to wake up, Emet-Selch,” he complained, while alarmingly awake.

“So it was,” he said, drifting off again, “and now it is no more. For shame. It served its purpose well, terrible though that purpose was.”

Fingers crept along his sides and under his overcoat’s furred edge. He hummed, appreciative of the initiative even if he didn’t much feel like moving just yet, his own grip around the other tightening in reflex.

When they found the soft spot under his ribs, they jabbed in.

Eyes snapping open, he hissed and drew back. “ _Exarch_ , honestly. Must you be so juvenile this early?”

“You should’ve listened to the alarm,” came the snotty reply. The Exarch set his hands against his chest and gave a light push, so that he was forced to let go and roll onto his back. “I’m only doing as you bade me to.”

With that, the Exarch pushed himself up and, to all appearances, made to leave the bed.

That wouldn’t do. The bed was already colder for his absence. Emet-Selch reached out to snag his arm and pull him back.

While it was a move he belatedly recalled the Exarch was most often opposed to, _this time_ he did not protest beyond a half-hearted complaint as he fell again to his chest. Mellow and dull as his slowly-waking mind felt, he decided to thus push his luck, and shifted them both until the Exarch neatly straddled his stomach.

Red whipped back and forth behind the Exarch, his tail betraying his agitation as much as the grumbling-scowl on his face. Still, he did not actively protest.

Though his braid was intact, tufts of hair had escaped its hold. White-red sleep-lines from his sleeve and the pillowcase criss crossed his cheek. His clothes had shifted from their neat lines to a tousled jumble. Overall he looked rumpled but well-rested, which was more than could usually be said.

Under Emet-Selch’s appraising eye, his back straightened and his neck flushed, but again, he did not protest.

The prior day’s events filtered to the forefront of Emet-Selch’s mind. While there was plenty to unpack, he focused on the simplest matter. It seemed the most appropriate for the moment which was yet gentled by sleep’s kind embrace.

“You stayed the night,” he noted, inordinately pleased by that fact and not willing to hide it.

“So it appears,” the Exarch replied, tense now in a way he hadn’t been before he’d fully awaken.

That wouldn’t do. If Emet-Selch had to be awake too, and soon return to the ship and its echoes of the lost, then they might as well make a fine morning of it.

He ran his hands down his sides and settled them on his hips. Ears flicking back, the Exarch’s chest rose and fell with a heavy exhale, his hands flat against Emet-Selch’s chest. He seemed, at a glance, to be caught between two impulses. Two at a _minimum_ , anyway; he was somewhat sure that in the span of one breath and the next, the Exarch’s mind ran through a dozen more ideas of what Emet-Selch could possibly intend.

Ridiculous, proud, untouchable Exarch. Ever separate from the rabble in ways he really didn’t have to be.

All considered...

“When have you last woken next to someone, my dear Exarch?” Emet-Selch asked, genuinely curious. “Aside from your usual close-quartered travel companions, of course.”

His flush crept higher. “Does it matter?”

“No,” he replied, honest, “but it gives me an idea of where to draw the line.”

“It’s been… some time.” His tail lashed again. “I can count on one hand those who saw my face outside of battle during my stay in Norvrandt, and none of them were invited to _stay the night._ But I’ll be sure to tell you if we trip over any lines.”

“I trust that you would.” Principled and consistent creature that he was. Voice lowered and touch light, he soothed his hands up and down the other’s sides. “Come closer?”

After a brief hesitation, his eyes searching Emet-Selch’s face for trickery or mockery, the Exarch leaned forward and down, bracing himself by his elbows on either side of Emet-Selch’s head. 

When he was but an inch away and before Emet-Selch could breach the distance, he murmured, “Why do you yet call me that?”

So, they still were talking. That was fine. 

Tugging idly at the fabric of his tabard’s back, he put his gaze on the other’s mouth as he answered, “What, ‘my dear?’ While you’ve admitted to being out of the game for a while, I daresay it hasn’t changed its meaning in the last few centuries.”

“No. The Exarch.” Emet-Selch flicked his eyes up to meet his. He was, by the seriousness in his expression, sincere. “G’raha would be fine. Especially...”

…

He did not continue. He didn’t really have to.

Staring each other in the eye during this discussion was a bit much, in Emet-Selch’s opinion. To fix that, he flattened his hands to the Exarch’s back and drew him flush against his chest. With a small note of surprise, he went; and, for lack of a better place, tucked his face into Emet-Selch’s neck.

“G’raha, is it,” he hummed, eyes on the ceiling as he tested it out. Raha of the G’tribe. Tia, too, if his knowledge of his people’s naming conventions wasn’t already outdated. But of course: he’d struck out from beyond his tribe’s safety, a natural-born scholar and seeker. 

There were always choices, and ever moreso the consequences. 

His deliberations must have lasted too long, as G’raha asked, his warm breath tickling Emet-Selch’s neck, “Is that a problem?”

No.

But it wasn’t really fair, either.

When had he last cared about a fair exchange? 

When had a Sundered understood what it meant? G’raha might have had the shape of an inkling, but to him, it surely was nothing more than a cultural quirk. It wouldn’t matter one way or another to him. _Eris_ had been upset he hadn’t paid her the respect (a respect he had once offered her freely, in his first and best life), but he had been too wrapped up in his own mind to care. 

These days, he was unfortunately and painfully self-aware. As much as he could be, anyway. As much as anyone could be and not want to Sunder themselves into a million tiny pieces.

And...

Hythlodaeus would like him to _try_ to be fair, wouldn’t he. Another new beginning. Another chance. Just as discussed.

Raising a hand to scratch lightly at the base and back of G’raha’s ears, he finally said, “Then you had best call me Hades.”

When they were in private, anyway. But by how the other’s hand curled into his jacket, at his stillness and the soft noise that escaped him, he understood.

How nostalgic, that understanding.

“If you’re sure,” he murmured, his lips to Hades’ neck.

“I won’t offer again,” he replied, deathly serious under his flippant tone, “so you may do as you will with what you’ve heard, G’raha.”

G’raha hummed, nosing closer. By the faint, _faint_ vibration rising from deep in his throat and underlying his words, Hades’ knowledge of miqo’te wasn’t so outdated that they’d outgrown ear-scratches. 

“Fine,” G’raha mumbled, at last once more relaxing, the hand atop his chest idly curling and loosening in his lapel, “I shall do as I will, Hades. Seeing as you appear to be allergic to sincerity.”

For preservation of the pleasant vibration alone, he resisted flicking an ear tip.

They didn’t fall asleep, but so too did they remain like that for a half-hour more, wrapped in a semblance of contentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c 
> 
> the e rating is actually for emotional intimacy
> 
> (jk, but also, awww finally the official turning point for the two old souls! only took ~150k, gods...... luckily, the payoff is worth it.)
> 
> as always: find me at peltyfluff on twitter!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this officially marks the half-way point for Anabasis (how and when?! I can't believe it)! which means it's about time for a beach episode-esque interlude. in addition, just as a little aside, it's probably obvious by now that I'm a huge fan of the "biased narrator" POV... somethin to keep in mind throughout this and future chapters, mayhaps ;]
> 
> but also 
> 
> **warning:** for body disphoria mentions and some nc-17 kinky shit (light D/s, choking, praise, author taking liberties with the sexual preferences of an immortal that technically doesn't even need a physical body) in this chapter. everything between the characters is fully consensual but, considering how they are & that relationships are whacky, things aren't always smooth going. read only what you're comfy with!
> 
> anyhow, please enjoy!!

“Y’shtola, hello! How fares your work?”

“Not too promising, I fear. We haven’t any news worth giving on Hydaelyn. But, I hear Garlond’s enterprise fares well?”

“Relatively. There’ve been no new problems, though they’re still working on restoring power. Cid admits he might have been optimistic about the difficulty of rewiring an entire spaceship.”

“That sounds about right. I’m merely happy to hear it hasn’t sunk back into the sand. Has van Baelsar’s group remained with you?”

“For the moment. There’s certainly been talk of leaving all protective measures to the Warrior of Light, which Cahsi has understandably not been too keen on.”

“Glorified guard is a touch below her usual fare.”

“Indeed. I believe she’ll soon be offering her scholarly services here to stem that particular option. In any case, I’ll be returning to the area at night for the foreseeable future. If you or the others are ever in need of a direct delivery somewhere, please do not hesitate to flag me down.”

“Oh? Is all well with the Tower?”

“It’s quite well! I’ve an improvement to implement, as a matter of fact. One I had hoped to see in action for a while now, actually.”

“One you won’t share before it’s done? Well, now I’m worried.”

“Ah, aha, yes, it’s just, I-I think I will keep this one to myself for the time being. Success or not, it shan’t impact anyone else. However, in the event it _does_ fail, I’d rather it be swept under the rug and forgotten.”

“Hm. Whatever it is, do take care, G’raha. Whenever you wish to tell, we’ll be happy to hear.”

“Thank you…”

As one week became two in devising a fix to the ship’s power problem, returning to the Tower when the others took their nightly breaks became routine for both the Exarch and Emet-Selch.

Always together. For Hades, once the new warding proved to hold strong against Hydaelyn’s presence, he came to either sleep or work without, as he so gracefully put it, a relentlessly nosy primal breathing down his neck. Every so often he insisted G’raha sit down with him and practice his magic. As he regrettably proved a decent teacher, G’raha couldn’t find it in him to refuse. 

Just as he couldn’t find a reason not to try what he had, for the better part of _a century,_ dreamed of. To that end, part of Hades’ work and instruction included modifications of the Tower’s energy flow, such that the Tower no longer ate into G’raha’s lifeforce when he strayed from its walls or called on its power. Although the bulk of the slow-going modifications fell to G’raha and even success by no means ensured complete severance, his wish for independence from his bloodline’s treasure became a feasible reality with the original Allagan Architect as an advisor.

Even though he’d just began the modifications, the difference in energy drain was immense. On one hand, he had to draw more from his own aether for spells when he was outside of the Tower, which left him fairly tired in its own right. It also made his spells less potent. On the other hand, he saved an awful lot of mental energy from not having to worry about whether he’d wake up to the crystal again growing up his arm. In addition, it turned out that lessons from an actual sorcerer rather than pure trial-and-error meant his spellwork greatly, _greatly_ improved. 

Within just a month’s worth of practice, he could teleport wherever he wished. By the second month, he could take passengers. Greater distances and extra passengers took more energy, of course, but having the whole of the Source within hypothetical reach left him in a state of pure elation. 

It was freedom. 

If only he could share his success with the Crystarium’s people… But travel between Shards was a project for another time.

Perhaps one day, once they’d dealt with whatever consequences the spaceship and Hydaelyn investigations gave. He wasn’t alone in wishing for closure with the First. Alphinaud mused on Eulmore’s state whenever he was so reminded, while Feo Ul had reportedly visited Cahsi’s dreams in recent times to demand assurance that she could not provide regarding a visit from both her and Urianger, as the pixies missed him.

“-- Do I spy Emet-Selch over there?”

G’raha glanced up the road from the Rising Stones’ entrance to see Hades-- that was, _Emet-Selch,_ considering where they were-- meandering through the loose crowd at the marketplace. 

“Strange,” Y’shtola continued, not thinking twice about G’raha’s silence, though he himself was painfully aware of how his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth in thinking up some excuse (except there wasn’t even a reason to give an excuse, was there? He was overthinking it!), “he usually doesn’t visit.”

He didn’t. He was usually either at the Tower, or working in the Burn. Occasionally he could be found in neither place, which G’raha had only asked about once. Rather than share where he went, Emet-Selch turned it around and began heckling him about how little he ventured beyond the Tower or Revenant Toll’s well-guarded walls _despite_ his burgeoning independence, even though the reason he was so glued to the area _was_ for crafting his independence-- or, actually, for researching the Eris-made snake with Cahsi, since Emet-Selch provided peer review but no direct action regarding it, despite its mystery relating entirely to his cause!

... Needless to say, they’d immediately gotten off topic, and G’raha had decided not to ask again. Everyone needed their own space and time, and, anyway, wherever Emet-Selch went didn’t seem to pose a problem for the rest of them. Though some remained lightly suspicious about his activities, they all agreed that he greatly lacked in nefarious motivations, especially with Zodiark and the other Ascians firmly out of the picture.

So that Emet-Selch was skulking visibly around Revenant’s Toll…

G’raha took that as his way to make a statement about _who_ he was visiting, rather than anything to do with the place.

G’raha hesitated, but then unstuck his tongue and forced himself to say, making sure to keep his eyes away from Y’shtola’s and on the general market space, “I imagine you’ll find him skulking about the town’s shadows much more regularly as well. He’s helping me with the Tower’s improvement.”

In the corner of his vision, he saw her attention snap to him.

Within a pause that weighed a thousand tonnes, she sized him and his implication up.

Fortunately, whatever she found didn’t alarm her too badly (though who was he to really say? she was far too good at keeping a straight face!). At its end, she said, “Tell him to stop in more often, would you? Krile has a thousand and one questions about Amaurot and Ascians, and we feel entitled to answer but a fraction of them.”

Happy to accept that at face value and leave Emet-Selch to deal with whatever doubts actually lingered in her mind, G’raha said he well understood the curiosity and would pass along the message at the earliest convenience. In the meantime, as he could see that the vendor he needed had finally opened her stall, he really needed to get back to work.

In parting, she told him to be less of a busybody, as Krile missed seeing him, too.

He assured her that he could provide no such assurances, much as he missed Krile as well, and hurried off to the markets.

When he arrived at the vendor, he was informed that he was a moment too late, as a Garlean had _just_ bought out all the stock that he needed.

“Is that right?” G’raha replied, spotting said Garlean standing not too far away, a wooden box full of green wind crystals at his feet. He appeared to be distracted with Rowena’s replica Allagan weapons. “How inconveniently poor timing for me.”

“We should receive another shipment in a week or so, if you like to place a hold? There will be a minor storage fee.”

He gave the vendor an absent smile, “No, that will be fine,” and for his own peace of mind, went to inform Emet-Selch that their maintenance schedule for the day would need to be postponed because, as it happened, Krile had requested their joint presence within the _hour,_ and they had best not keep her waiting. As expected, Emet-Selch was none too pleased about the sudden appointment. The way G’raha saw it was that if he hadn’t wanted to be roped into Scion interaction, he should’ve left the errands to G’raha as they’d agreed. 

In any case, it didn’t matter. Though he complained, he followed G’raha to the Rising Stones, and submitted himself to answering Krile’s myriad of questions about Amaurot, Ascians, and other things ancient and incredible. He even answered with as minimal evasion and quip as could be expected. 

Y’shtola sat with them for a time, but left mid-conversation after Thancred, looking somewhat harried and after nodding acknowledgement to G’raha and Emet-Selch, called her into their new study, Dawn’s Respite, to discuss a personal matter.

While the interruption sparked concern in G’raha’s heart, he knew well enough that if it was a subject meant to be shared, Thancred would do so in his own time. Krile, not one to entertain eavesdropping on such a discussion, neatly relocated them to the other side of the Rising Stones and thereafter directed Emet-Selch’s attention back to a question regarding the immortality of a dragon’s soul versus an Amaurotine.

So well did the conversation between Krile and Emet-Selch go that G’raha was not at all surprised when Krile bid for a pot of hot tea so that they might talk longer, whereupon Emet-Selch turned Krile’s attention toward her and G’raha’s joint time at the Studium and the oh-so-hilarious stories to be found therein. It was a move calculated as eye for an eye. While fair might have been fair, G’raha spent the entire exchange matching the color of his face to his hair, so great did his embarrassment rise.

(He also spent it fighting a grin, but that was beside the point.)

“Did Raha ever tell you that he once ate nothing but peanut butter, fish, and basil sandwiches for a week?” she asked innocently, as if the answer wasn’t beyond obvious and the topic absolutely irrelevant! “You could always tell which class he’d been studying for based on the smudges in the page-corners.”

“The sandwiches were an experiment in good faith!” he protested, recalling suddenly the incident in question and scarcely restraining his excitement to defend his honor, because it _had_ been a fine experiment at the time. “And those papers went nowhere but into my bookbag, so they bothered none but I.”

“Except the faint smell of peanut butter and salmon followed you everywhere during that time, including our shared herbology class.” She scrunched her nose up at the memory. 

He thumbed at his own nose, hiding his growing smile behind a palm. “Far worse would be if we had to smell those mandrakes freshly picked _without_ a pleasant undercurrent of peanut butter.”

Emet-Selch watched them, one eyebrow quirked. Finally he dared to venture into the discussion and ask, “It was an experiment for what purpose?”

“An acceptable substitute for archon loaves,” Krile and he replied at the same time; her, deadpan, and him, proudly. 

“And it was successful!” He said.

“And it was twice as awful,” she confided, leaning toward Emet-Selch to give him the stage-whisper, “which is why they still use archon loaves and not the Raha-strosity.”

“It was successfully nutritionally balanced,” he huffed with faux indignation, crossing his arms firmly over his chest, “and had ingredients identifiable upon first glance, which sets it far above archon loaves.”

“It was an archon loaf deconstructed and more prone to messes.” She shook her head, then leaned even closer to Emet-Selch and loudly whispered, “But not as many messes as when he decided shaded spectacles made him look dashing and decided to wear them at all hours. Never before had there lived a miqo’te as clumsy as he. He tripped over so many steps and into so many bookcases, the library threatened to bar him from entry 'til he took the silly things off. We all pulled together to craft him a pair of glamoured glasses that _looked_ shaded, but did not cloud his vision. -- Whatever happened to those, Raha?”

“I cannot recall,” he said, tone light and eyes shifting far away from hers. “Lost in my travels, undoubtedly. A shame. They were fine eyewear. I appreciated them while I had them.”

Setting a finger to her chin and giving it a tap, she pretended to think. _Clearly_ she remembered as well as he what had happened to them, though, as she soon snapped her fingers and said, happily, “Oh, yes! I remember! You lost them in the bay while trying to feed the local kelpie a cucumber--”

“The legends said they preferred them to carrots!” 

“The _legends_ said they preferred to be left alone,” Krile cleared her throat, picking up her now-lukewarm cup of tea and sitting back in her chair, “as well as fresh meat. You delivered one of those things, at least.”

“I’d thought it to be a hippocampus, since we were at sea, not in a swamp,” he said to abate Emet-Selch’s growing amusement. On second thought, that fact might not have been a point in his favor. Oh well. Too late now. “As I learned, the actual difference is not always in location, but in how sharp their teeth are, which is very difficult to judge from far away.”

“Quite,” Emet-Selch said, straight-faced. 

Ah. So, a point against his favor.

Hmph.

What did Emet-Selch know? In almost every conceivable way, Ascians cheated at everything they did.

Thus did G’raha turn the tables and ask about _his_ time at the Akadaemia Anyder. He’d collected a few scraps of stories regarding the time from Hythlodaeus, which he wielded well as verbal weapons. 

As it turned out (and luckily, considering the potential pitfalls that G’raha only realized after he named _Hythlodaeus_ and Emet-Selch’s gaze sharpened in response), the scraps fed to them were tales Emet-Selch still recalled well, too. Perhaps the two had revisited the memories when they had been in Amaurot. Whatever the reason, one story became two and then became five. 

Though Emet-Selch never broke his drawling deadpan for a laugh or true smile, G’raha thought it was safe to say the night passed well. At the very least, they finished off the tea with Krile and G’raha’s faces hurting from too much smiling, whereupon Krile invited them to spend the night and, though they declined, it wasn’t until after the midnight bell had tolled that they departed.

Krile pulled G’raha aside as they headed out. When Emet-Selch lingered within earshot, she called out his lurking and made clear her bid for a moment alone with an old friend. For once he, with only a shrug, complied.

Thus alone, Krile turned keen eyes onto G’raha and said, “Now, Raha, I shan’t insult either of us by asking whether you know what you’re getting into by befriending that man, because it’s clear you do.”

Overtaken by the ominous feeling he’d had this conversation before, G’raha spared a brief, tired-brained moment where he longed for the ease of relationships when he donned the hood of the mysterious Exarch. No one tried to talk to him about what company he kept when they weren’t even sure if he was mortal--!

But then Krile continued with, “Yet, I can’t help but notice that the same aching loneliness which resides in him echoes in you.”

...

“-- Eh?” G’raha sputtered. “Krile, I-- am touched that you’ve taken note of my state, but I would prefer to speak about this at a time more appropriate. For instance, some time after I’ve been given some warning that you intended to discuss matters of the heart--”

“Oh, so that you might best plan a way to run away? I think not! In any case, please, I wasn’t finished.” She crossed her arms and rocked back onto her heels, her expression intent. “In my experience, the lonely path leads to apathy or zealotry. Either would do you a great disservice in the long run, Raha.”

“But I’m not alone,” he protested weakly, knowing he was dodging the point but not feeling sure-footed enough to stand tall against it, “unless you and the others are planning on going somewhere without my knowledge?”

Breaking her serious expression for a teasing, sing-song, “Not at the moment!” she then added, “I’m merely happy to hear you say as much. We’ve revisited many happy memories this night. I hope to add more for us to revisit in the future.”

That gave him true pause. It also sparked a tremulous feeling in his chest, as though a spark of light had decided to reside beneath his sternum.

“I wish the same,” he said, sincerely. “Considering the adventures the Scions are often called to, I imagine those new memories will swiftly find us.”

“Your Emet-Selch will be welcome too, of course,” she said, cheerily; though he baulked, unsure at that particular wording, she quickly continued with, “especially on any tasks that take us into the wilds. For if I had the ability to snap my fingers and Create an entire four-course meal and a grand house within which to enjoy it, you’d best bet that I wouldn’t mind camping nearly as much as I do now. Alphinaud is aware of that perk of camping with him, isn’t he?”

“Abstractly, at least, he must be aware,” G’raha admitted, and startled himself into a laugh by the image of Alphinaud asking anything of the sort from the eminent Emet-Selch, who likely hated camping -- with its tireless bugs, dirt, and sweaty hikes -- far more than either Scion.

Krile must have suspected as much herself, for she gave G’raha a great, glittering smile before patting him on the arm and saying, “It was good to spend the evening with the both of you. Stay well, Raha, and don’t be a stranger.”

He bid her the same, heart light and lungs breathing easy, then went to rejoin Emet-Selch.

He found him conversing with the wandering minstrel (who never seemed to wander too far from the Seventh Heaven’s bar) about lyres and lyrics. Though G’raha didn’t mean to interrupt, Emet-Selch excused himself quickly upon seeing him enter the barroom. The minstrel watched the them leave with an amused look on his face that G’raha didn’t want to think too much about, what with the late hour. 

By the time they returned to the Tower (half by foot to appreciate the nice night and, once they’d reached Saint Coinach’s Find, half by teleportation because the night wasn’t _that_ nice), it had become the earliest hours of the morning. Without need for discussion, they left the box of wind-aspected crystals atop a pile of books in G’raha’s reading room and summarily retired to the bedroom. 

Once they arrived, a distant part of him recognized that he had yet to tell anyone -- even Krile, who at this point knew his quirks better than he recalled hers -- that they’d taken to sharing not only a work routine, but a bed.

He privately assured himself it was for the best. Nebulous as their relationship continued to be, he wanted the space and time to understand its lines before receiving the others’ opinions.

For the first week of their habitual retreats to the Tower, simply sharing the bed had inspired trepidation. That turmoil continued despite the fact Hades did precious nothing other than fall asleep next to him with, at most, an arm or leg cast over him. In retrospect, that was possibly Hades catching up on lost time.

The second week saw a little less rest, and a little more attention. G’raha suspected Hades of knowing what he was doing _far_ too well, as he began the week by surprising G’raha with a kiss here and there, but ended it with G’raha under him and his tongue all but down his throat.

G’raha hadn’t even thought much of it until Hades slipped a hand beneath the band of his smallclothes. _Then_ the situation crashed in, too much too fast, and he’d ended it with a reflexive knee to Hades’ groin, which put a flummoxed and breathless Hades on the floor.

In other words, he’d panicked. A little.

“Line,” Hades had wheezed, “duly noted.”

G’raha had been too mortified to do more than cover his ears with his hands, wrap his tail tight around his waist, and apologize profusely.

“We’re both mostly civilized,” Hades said, once he’d climbed back to his feet and caught his breath, “next time, words will suffice. I’ll… ensure to do the same.”

Mumbling embarrassed agreement, G’raha buried his face under a pillow.

They’d again slept in the same bed that night, but back-to-back. 

So. Some things took time.

Throughout the next month, Hades coaxed him into not kicking, pushing, yelping, or, on one unhappy occasion, biting a lip bloody when matters escalated past kissing and heavy petting. 

As it turned out, he just-- needed warning. A lot of warning. And to learn his own body’s signs, which was a little humiliating as a process. 

He’d been completely fine with all of this when he was younger! He’d never been the biggest cat around, so to speak, but he’d certainly had his time in the sun with a few Studium sweethearts. Alright, just two Studium sweethearts, and both had been the slow-moving, deep-feeling types, but he’d sang them songs and taken them to moonlit parks and… 

And done more, probably. _Definitely._ He couldn’t really remember. It’d been a century ago! He’d been too worried about staying alive and summoning Cahsi and averting the Calamity to think about much else!

Apparently, a century mattered more than he’d let himself believe, in ways he hadn’t entirely contemplated.

It wasn’t fair.

It sucked.

A lot.

He learned there were tricks to having a good night. For one, focusing on Hades’ pleasure proved easier. The first few times they managed to get hands on each other without initial issue ended with Hades happy and sated before G’raha had to, _metaphorically_ , tuck tail and retreat to a private bath to handle himself.

Surprisingly, Hades never complained. Once, after G’raha had returned from his unplanned bath and they peacefully lay in bed together, he off-handedly mentioned that the physical was only one-half of a proper joining. That had piqued G’raha’s curiosity and he’d asked what, exactly, the other half could be. What Hades described sounded akin to merging souls, though he insisted that the souls themselves remained separate and distinct, and so it was far more like tuning two minds to the same frequency. It sounded fascinating, but was also, apparently, nigh impossible for sundered shards.

 _There was always time,_ G’raha thought. If he could learn, maybe Hades could, too.

The first time he’d gotten off with Hades’ hands directly on him, he’d grown so embarrassed by how he writhed and whimpered and whined that he’d complained loudly of overheating (not a lie!) and nearly kicked him again in the groin in an attempt to leave. But Hades had refused to let him race off and instead pulled him on top of him so he might regain his bearings without feeling too surrounded, and so that panic, too, passed. 

They added to their routine, action by slow action. The additions helped more than hurt.

Helped a _lot_ , actually, insofar as G’raha could tell. He felt more relaxed, more spry. Less and less did he worry about what others saw when they looked at him, even if what they saw included his crystallized hand.

Though the relationship remained fragile, it worked. 

… In any case, Hades and the bed aside, he had plenty to think through. 

With growing independence from the Tower came a host of biological changes that G’raha flat-out hadn’t thought about in more than a century. Easy examples included vague hunger that persisted until _after_ he’d eaten, thirst of a similar variety, and the actual desire to sleep at regular intervals. He could power through each impulse with the careful regulation of aether, but that felt cheap. A body of his own had been what he’d craved ever since he’d had the _audacity_ to journey from the Tower for more than three days and felt exhaustion drag at his bones. Circumventing the cost of maintaining independence just wasn’t fair.

Though it could be tempting. For instance: they’d both retired to the bedroom, where the graphs detailing his latest Tower-modifications were still displayed on his personal screens. Hades immediately shucked his outerwear and beelined for the bed, burying himself in a mountain of pillows and fur-lined silk blankets that G’raha definitely didn’t remember buying or bringing in. Though his own sluggish, relaxed limbs begged him to join, G’raha found himself with the silence and time to continue his work, and made to do so.

He got as far as pulling up the digital documents needed for cross-reference when he felt a thin cord of solid aether clasp around the end of his tail and give him a distinct, impossible-to-ignore tug.

On reflex, he spun about to swat at the tail-yanking offender, and of course, was met with nothing but empty air. At least the hold still dissipated, so that he might safely tuck his tail low. 

Across the way, half-lidded golden eyes watched him, both eyebrows quirked.

“You are not going to _work_ at this hour.”

Why did he sound so unimpressed? “It’s quiet and peaceful. I can’t think of a better time for delicate work such as this.” 

“A better time would be any other time. Particularly one where I do not have to hear you tapping at that screen.”

“If it bothers you so, turn off your ears. Or is that marvelous ability of selective hearing limited solely to terribly petty matters, such as cleaning duties?”

Hades directed his flat gaze toward the ceiling. “With how often you bring it up, I now do regret telling you about that. Just so you know.”

“Considering your _incredible_ control over your vessel,” he continued, lightly, ear tips twitching in quiet amusement at his own joke, “I assume light from my screens will also not pose you any trouble?”

“What would the good people of the Crystarium say if they knew their founder and leader to be such an unrelenting brat, I wonder,” He mused, voice as light as G’raha’s.

“Oh, they knew,” he chirped back, “because, as one of the apothecaries put it, nothing less would have kept that city together in its early days.”

“Having seen its early days, that is a remarkably astute observation.”

“And having caused the strife of its latter days…?”

With a small frown, Hades took an obvious moment to catch what he referred to. Once he did, he waved a lazy hand through the air, scoffing. “ _Eulmore_ was a monster of avarice unto itself. I merely undid its leash.”

He meant far more than Eulmore, but that was a whole host of issues they were, slowly, working themselves up to talking about. Or, rather, G’raha was working himself up to talk about it, issue by painful issue. In the meantime, piece by excruciatingly specific and minuscule piece, Hades relearned how to show even a shred of empathy for those outside of his primary circle.

To that end, G’raha took a breath, gentled his voice, and said, “For someone who engineered the worlds’ greatest tragedies, the violence with which our people returned to time and again always bothered you, didn’t it?”

A beat. 

“The hypocrisy was never lost on us.” He replies, honestly. “Even tempered as we were, we understood very well what horrors we caused. Though I maintain the vast majority of mortals hardly deserve the air they breathe, let alone the shards inhabiting their fragile bodies, the world itself… The trees, the grasses, the animals. The innocents we once shepherded with gentle care and concern. They had no business in our war.” He rolled over, putting his back to G’raha. “The ends had to justify the means. You understand that.”

“I do.” 

It didn’t mean he agreed. Not then, not now, likely not ever, at least as long as he drew breath and knew himself as he was. But without Zodiark, the likelihood of Hades returning to such conquests were null.

“Yet, of the nefarity we could have once imagined,” Hades continued softly and so evenly as to be flat and apathetic, “mortals always managed to dig themselves to new depths. Whatever cruelty you’ve witnessed from me, know it to be learned from those like you.”

Staring blankly at his work screen, G’raha realized then that he did, actually, feel quite tired. Turning it off, he went to retrieve his sleepwear and then head toward the bed. Throughout, Hades remained quiet. 

Once he had changed, knowing by the other’s posture that he hadn’t drifted off, G’raha at last prompted, “But…?”

“But nothing,” Hades growled, tension tightening his shoulders where he lay. “But what? You and your friends, you and your crystal city, have set finer examples of a mortal’s capacity for good? You who were driven to a painful end and still looked first to stem one another’s bleeding? And so the few are _but_ to outweigh the many?”

Climbing on the bed to settle behind him (somewhat difficult given just how soft all the pillows and blankets had turned his bed-- or was that a new feather-down mattress as well? … in any case, he managed, somewhat gracefully), G’raha pressed his forehead to Hades’ back and said, sincerely, “That’s certainly a start. I’ll take it.”

A piece of anger broke off the taut expanse of Hades’ shoulders. 

At the same time, he sighed loudly, turning over to draw G’raha to his chest and set his chin to the top of his head. G’raha went easily, tail curling absently around their waists. 

Hades muttered, “Insufferable, prying brat. Sometimes I wonder if you begin these talks just to fish for compliments.”

“ _Hardly._ ”

“They’re merely a perk, hm?”

“If that’s what you think that I intend when I remind you about the world at large, when you’re most often the one who must needs be dunked in water to remember that his throat is parched--”

“Oh, hush. I jest.” He worked an arm under G’raha, curling it up to tug at the end of his braid. “Your modesty is one of your more infuriating qualities.”

“So you’ve mentioned before.”

“And so you’ve yet to correct.” 

“Were I to gain even a shred of your arrogance…”

“The term is ‘confidence,’ actually.”

“... I fear I might forget to watch my feet even as I step across a viper den, so high might my bloated ego take me.”

“Charming.” Evidently deciding the conversation had proceeded far enough, Hades played his fingers down G’raha’s back, nails scratching lightly along the way. “Levitation is a spell you could easily master now. Remind me to add it to our list.”

“ _List_ ,” G’raha echoed, his own hands compulsively grasping and releasing the front of Hades’ nightshirt. “This is the first I’ve heard about a list.”

“You think you’ve been learning as and where my whim takes us?” Hades drew back to nudge at his shoulder, his eyes glinting with intent and his mouth curled in a small, telling smirk. Though complying and rolling onto his back set his stomach to flip-flopping, as these lead-up dances often did, he did. “Please. With near-boundless energy at your beck and call, you’ve the potential to be a half-decent sorcerer. The process requires careful guidance. I shan’t mess it up by cutting corners in your education.”

With playful sarcasm, “How fortunate I have such a patient and tolerant teacher, then.” 

Hades moved a leg over him, settling himself -- _boldly,_ in G’raha’s opinion -- on his lap. Though he was _ridiculously_ tall from his perspective, his overall lack of musculature (and five clothing layers) made him relatively light. Once he made himself comfortable, shifting about in a manner that was quite indecent and yet looking like nothing less than a preening bird, he ducked forward till his mouth hovered a half-ilm from G’raha’s mouth.

He murmured, “And I, a willing and eager student,” and closed the distance.

They would have no further discussion of note this evening.

Understanding that, G’raha easily looped his arms over Hades’ shoulders and kissed back. 

A dart of tongue here, a nip there. The slow give-and-take-and-build to something more heated, more intent. That routine, at least, had grown familiar. Even still, Hades murmured frequent encouragement and low praise with such consistency that G’raha had no real recourse but to accept it.

As he’d rediscovered, there was a natural script his body, at least, knew how to read.

When Hades rolled his hips, his hands fell to his waist. When Hades abandoned his mouth to kiss under his chin, his head fell back. Another roll of the hips, an arch to his spine-- and heat pooled, low and heady, below his stomach. 

His fingers dug into Hades’ warm skin with warning. Hades, of course, took one look at his caution and all but laughed at it.

Abandoning his ministrations at his neck, he straightened and took G’raha’s crystal arm in hand. Raising it to his mouth, he pressed his lips to its knuckles. More than G’raha expected, he did this: cradled it, showered it with care, at times tracing up and down its length and along the seam of skin and stone as though it were some priceless artifact. One day, assuming it did not consume the whole of him before then, it probably would be. For even when G’raha’s body inevitably turned to dust, the crystal would remain.

He felt the pressure of Hades’ attention on his arm as a distant buzz in the back of his mind. More distracting was the focused, near-adoring expression on Hades’ face; and, even more than that, was how his upright position allowed him to rock slow, dragging circles on G’raha’s lap.

For G’raha’s part, his mind warred with wanting to spur Hades on faster versus forcing him still. Caught between the impulses, he dragged his free hand up and down the other’s thigh and then back to hold on to the jut of his hip. The heat in his stomach grew, spreading as a thin, prickling layer across his skin. It drew him taut, and surely Hades could feel it.

It could still be-- a lot. Too much. Slow or fast, both held their pitfalls.

It was always a toss up if the night would take a tumble toward the overwhelming. This night seemed fine. _Better than fine,_ actually. It was nice. He’d despaired at Hades’ fixation on his arm before, but watching him now, he saw only honest appreciation and a hint of delight. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t feel like asking just yet, but neither did he feel the need to bid him to stop.

Except then Hades decided to not limit himself to mere exploration of his crystal arm. Before G’raha knew it, Hades leaned forward and placed his crystal hand at the join of his own neck and shoulder, such that his thumb was set just below the jut of that long, pale throat. The blue of his hand just brushed the darkened, ragged edge of the pitted scar on his shoulder; together, the two looked almost grotesque, a dual reminder of worlds fought for and, in their own way, lost. 

When he tried to draw his hand back, Hades held fast his wrist.

“Hades--?” G’raha started, in _actual_ warning, unsure. Words. They were supposed to use words before doing anything too new or unusual. 

“Try this for me,” he said, smooth as silk despite the hand at his throat and how he refused to cease his maddening grind, “and rest assured that were we to cross a line, we are both more than capable of retreat.”

_Try this._

That was a familiar statement, too.

It made sense, he supposed. To say the other had plenty of experience would be a gross underestimation. He knew what he liked. He knew what he was doing.

G’raha, not so much. Every _try this_ threatened to open a door to a new unknown. Even if he wasn’t exactly opposed, it was intimidating in its own.

He wet his lips, then, knowing he was giving permission even as he asked, “Try what, exactly?”

Hades’ eyes lidded. The black had blown such that the gold was but a shining ring. “Now, Exarch, please. We both know you are no kitten.”

“I…” Sucking in a tight breath, he let it out slowly. Flexed his crystal hand, lightly pressing to the soft skin between two sharp collarbones. Hades swallowed against it, his chin rising with a tiny, miniscule jerk. Somewhat distracted by the motion, G’raha continued, haltingly but honestly, “... am well aware. I merely want to hear you ask for it aloud.”

Hades’ lidded eyes fell shut, his next exhale a laugh.

He didn’t technically need air. A hand at the throat hardly constituted even a vague threat. To G’raha’s knowledge, though he’d never actively made good on the idea, he could manipulate the aether in his crystal hand whenever and however he wanted. 

But the implication--

“ _That’s_ the spirit of it, little Exarch,” Hades said, eyes opening to a black-gold sliver as he leaned forward into his hand till his skin paled when he held his arm steady. Below, he canted his hips such that G’raha had to draw a sharp breath in, nails digging again into his hip. “What would you like me to say, my dear? That I want your hand at my neck? That your inhibitions at times bore me, and I wish to feel your intent in as pure a form as you can manage? That I long to see what you are capable of when no one is watching? That--?”

“You want to be hurt,” G’raha interrupted, “and find sense in our violence,” unimpressed even in his state with the shoddy misdirection. This was hardly about _him_.

“Mm, that’s very philosophical,” Hades allowed, sounding so unimpressed himself that G’raha was more than half-sure he was right, “or maybe it’s none of the above, and I just want us to stop talking and for you to get on with it.”

That was undoubtedly true.

So, G’raha did.

He refused to do it with his crystal arm. Before he’d mastered what buzz of pressure meant what, he’d cracked no few glass cups from accidentally gripping them up too hard. For a few nights after, he’d worried endlessly that he’d do the same to someone living, bruising their skin or cracking their bones without meaning to because he couldn’t tell how strong his grip was. In any case, it didn’t feel right. Though Hades might’ve enjoyed the pure aether at his throat, he wanted it to be _his_ hand there.

When he drew back his hand, Hades hummed with disappointment but did not argue. When he replaced it with his flesh hand and tightened his grip, Hades rewarded him with a low, cut-off chuckle before his eyes again fell shut and he ground _hard_ down on G’raha.

Too much, too fast. G’raha’s grip faltered. Somehow Hades understood, as he stilled his hips; but so too did he snag his wrist, held it in place, and demanded, voice roughened, “Tighter.”

“I—“

“I’m asking you for this,” Hades said, which was a patently unfair statement. “Trust that I know what I request. Trust too, that if I can speak, it isn’t enough.” 

G’raha knew very well the strength required to crush a windpipe. He’d been threatened with it himself on the battlefield, though only from bandits thinking him an easy target (and not realizing that he hadn’t technically needed to breathe by then, either). 

Hesitating a moment longer, considering how Hades bared his neck and dropped his shoulders and overall looked like he truly did want what he asked for—

He tightened his grip a number of degrees shy of that point. 

Matters escalated quickly from there.

On a normal person, even a partially crushed windpipe and tight grip on the side artery would have given them trouble. But Hades treated it, just like he did most physical acts, as an excuse to experience his body at its extremes. Almost like a fun exercise to relearn its limits.

And so even when anyone else would be gasping for air, Hades leaned even closer to urge his grip tighter. But then Hades slipped one of his own hands between their bodies and pulled them free from their smallclothes, and thereafter it was G’raha gasping, Hades’ hand a tight circle and his strokes rough. His hips jerked upward of their own accord, seeking friction however he might have it. 

Free hand leaving Hades’ hip to join his hand on their leaking cocks, he released his grip on the other’s neck to pull him closer. Hades all but fell into him, bent in half to accommodate their height difference and to bury his face into G’raha’s shoulder. 

For but a second, he relished Hades’ heaving breath against his own flushed neck. It wheezed on the exhale, and twice he coughed, but sooner than natural, even those signs of issue faded. While he collected himself, G’raha petted tentatively over his hair, eyes searching the ceiling as he tried to— tried to think, and failed, definitely failed. His thoughts were as sand swept up by a gale, scattered and strange. 

While Hades’ breath evened out in short order, G’raha’s did not. Their hands hadn’t ceased working over their dicks; Hades twisted his wrist toward the top, his thumb sweeping the crowns and dragging thin slick downward, but it was still a little rough, a lot dry, close together as they were held.

G’raha arched his back and hissed at the sensation, his one hand stuttering in its strokes and his other gripping compulsively in short hair. His hiss dissolved into a ragged moan. Positive was he that he’d soon vibrate out of his skin; nothing less fit the feeling building in him.

While he was lost to sensations, Hades kissed the side of his jaw, or so he thought he felt. Certainly he knew a smile when it was pressed to his overheated skin, and absolutely did he recognize its smug challenge, though he wasn’t sure how Hades thought he’d rise to meet it. He wanted to. Struggling against his haze, he knew: oh, he wanted to. Proud, arrogant Hades, so sure of himself— a boon and a bust, that was, though mostly baffling, as surely the physicality had been a learned trait as well?

— Ah. 

An impulse rose, an idea took hold. 

Before he could talk himself out of it (as though his mind was at all capable of coherency beyond an immediate impulse), he went with it. Again he returned his hand to Hades’ neck and urged him upright, his thumb tight to his windpipe and his other fingers digging in the soft side, skin dimpling easily under his tight hold, and likely, there would be bruises in the morning--

Hades welcomed it, head up and neck long, something like a smile still on his face as his body tensed and his mouth parted but only the barest exhale escaped his closed throat. Finally his hand as well as everything else paused, his long fingers tightened around their shafts, and he came, spilling onto G’raha’s stomach. 

Startled, G’raha made a noise of some sort. Probably an embarrassing noise. Actually, definitely an embarrassing noise, because it’d surprised him but it also reminded him how nice it would be to have his own relief, and that thought made him moan and also, act. And so he rode out the same impulse that had him grip Hades’ neck and reach out to push Hades by the shoulder to the bed and onto his back, straddling him and taking himself roughly in hand with skin-warmed crystal and, after a few fast strokes, followed Hades right over the cliff toward his release. He marred Hades’ stomach with white, the burning under his skin at last smothered into bone-deep satisfaction. 

After, he laid himself flat to Hades’ chest. Though he heard Hades grumble about disgusting messes, it wasn’t so bad that either felt the need to move. And so they laid together, sweaty and overheated and unwilling to move to fix any of that, lest the glow fade too soon. 

When G’raha at last raised his head to check on the other, he found vicious red to encircle one half of the other’s throat. Although Hades had already caught his breath, implying he’d fixed any internal damage, the external marks were, evidently, going nowhere.

How strange, to think if he were to lay his hand once more upon Hades’ throat, it would match perfectly the bruises.

It wasn’t necessarily a comfortable thought. But it was a thought. By how he continued to stare at the reddened markings in fascination, he had to admit to himself, albeit privately: perhaps, in fact, it had been, just a bit, about him.

… While a piece of him worried about the budding desire for a repeat performance, the rest of him felt too sated to concern itself with his usual tendency toward overthinking a problem that didn’t yet exist.

Settling deeper into the plush bed, G’raha turned his eyes to the ceiling and, for once, found his mind blissfully blank.

At length, once their shared heat had grown to a near-unbearable level such that their mutual satisfaction and lethargy was destined to burn out (a problem solely experienced by G’raha, as Hades never once complained about temperature) and the fluids on their stomachs grew itchy (Hades’ complaint, evidenced by the disgusted face he made when he looked down at it), they found the motivation to get up.

Or, rather, G’raha found the motivation. Hades continued to lay there and look unhappy about the messiness of it all.

“Would you like me to fetch you a rag and washbowl?” G’raha asked, partly joking and partly, stupidly, honestly, affectionate. For a being that obviously enjoyed sex a great deal, he really didn’t like dealing with the aftermath. 

“Please do,” was Hades’ reply, his voice slightly scratchy but otherwise as prim, proper and snotty as any Eulmoran noble could hope to manage. “I’d handle it myself, but since you’re so generously offering…”

To G’raha, clean-up was a highlight. There was always an easy goal, and no expectations beyond meeting it by no longer being sticky or messy. It was also one of the few times he could get away with what he viewed as a nice gesture and what Hades viewed as unnecessary fussing without any disparaging comments. Anyway, as it so happened (and here was one of the very few things that hadn’t surprised G’raha since they’d fallen into bed with one another), Hades greatly enjoyed being pampered. The less he had to do before he could roll over and fall asleep, the happier he was. 

Between them, it worked well.

Eventually they were as clean as they could be without a proper bath. Though the clock, when G’raha summoned it up, informed them they had precious few hours to actually sleep before Hades was due at the Burn and G’raha due at Cahsi’s side to continue investigating the origins of the Eris-made snake, G’raha dimmed the room’s lights and they both settled in for a spot of shuteye.

Just as G’raha was about to drift off, eyes shut and limbs heavy with sleep, Hades said, “By the way. If you ever think covering your eyes to be a smart move, I must bid that you first seek a second opinion.”

Although he could have left Hades’ strangely timed statement alone, he said, words suffused with warm mirth, “Say the stories tonight sparked within me an idea long-forgotten. Might I have that second opinion now?”

“The second opinion is: reconsider.” Though his words were as blunt as ever, Hades spoke softer than his usual. The change, G’raha believed, came from either lingering satisfaction or because, in the room’s dark, he was caught up in some sort of memory. “Your eyes speak of an enduring legacy that few others matched. Scant though I recall of your ancestor, forgettable though she’d seemed at the time, Salina and her heirs… continually chose well, apparently.” 

A small, small pause. When G’raha had spoken of Salina before during a work session, Hades surprised him by professing that they’d either never met or, if they had, it hadn’t been anything remarkable. Then again, _had_ she met the Allagan mastermind and fell onto his radar, it was quite possible her own mechaniations would never have been realized.

In any case, spoken as it was while they shared a more-than-companionable silence, the topic felt heavier than normal. Salina’s memories hovered ever-present at the edge of his consciousness. Her hopes, her dreams, her despair. All resting on the Tower. Though he’d long learned to manage it and, ultimately, carried overwhelming gratitude that she’d given him the tools to aid the Warrior of Light and the world, her blood had also caused him no small amount of grief. He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say on the matter, and didn’t feel it right to say anything less than what he meant.

But then Hades continued, less delicately, “Sentimentality aside, they’re a lovely color,” and that, at least, G’raha knew how to reply to. 

Shoving past the knot in his throat till his words betrayed nothing of the sort, he said, “Notwithstanding that you, whose magic frequently manifests in a similar hue, may be biased.”

“Precisely so.”

Hades hummed, distracted by his returned drowsiness and apparent satisfaction with how the night went. Although he put his back to G’raha, he shifted closer toward him. It felt like a more trusting gesture than normal, which was a thought that again put a lump into his throat. 

Needing to sate that peculiar feeling, G’raha snagged the soft edge of a thicker blanket and pulled it up over them both. When that didn’t feel like enough, he cast his mind to what would satisfy his newfound desire, and realized it was a bid for closeness. Not a familiar impulse— or, maybe it was, but rare was it that he’d indulge it. 

Well. Hades was right there, and had a proven fondness for close contact whenever he slept.

With that in mind, G’raha turned to him, stretched out, and fit himself neatly behind him. When Hades didn’t complain, he pressed his forehead to the top of the other’s spine, one arm thrown over his shoulders and tail again draping over his hip. Like that, they at last fell to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for reading! the plot and old men return from vacation next chapter. ;] 
> 
> y'all's kudos, comments & feedback give me life (and also smiles for days). each and every one is super and sorely appreciated!! thank you all for making this such a fun story to share! 
> 
> on a final note: I've officially finished & cleaned up (with the help of Jackaloping, ilu friend!!) this story + its extended scenes, so I'll be upping the update schedule to Mondays and Thursdays. in the meantime, find me at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter if you like. :D take care!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as has been obvious and will become increasingly obvious, i...... know nothing about engineering
> 
> but i sure do know how to use Google, so, if you have a complaint about the representation of mechanical nonsense in this chapter, then, prithee,, direct thy grievances to Master Google

Thancred found his target in the mystery ship’s command room, which was still lit by dim, yellow mage light. Emet-Selch sat idle by a blank desk, elbow on its surface so that he might prop his chin on the back of a gloved hand. He had somehow managed to don even more clothing than his usual mountain of layers, complete with a high-necked red scarf, although the ship’s temperatures were lukewarm at worst. The piles of papers upon the desk and machinist tools scattered at his feet offset the laziness in his pose, as well as how even he had to lean far forward to reach the desktop from the chair. 

The ship hadn’t really concerned Thancred. Once it was up and running, he was sure he’d be called in for some adventure or other, but machina definitely wasn’t his strong suit. As it so happened, this constituted his second time aboard the ship, and the first time he’d gone beyond the entry hall.

It was a curiously alien place. All smooth angles and cold metal. No room varied too much from another. It was almost as if someone had taken the already-boring Garlean architecture and squashed it flat. At least with Garleans, it was pretty obvious at first glance that every jutting part and pipe had a purpose. Here, he had no idea how to tell what anything did, up to and including the weird orb stuck in the command room’s center.

But, the ship wasn’t why he’d come aboard. When he’d asked around for Emet-Selch’s location, he’d been immediately pointed toward the command room. Apparently the Ascian was waiting within for the completion of a test drive. He’d been assured by Biggs that he could definitely board without trouble, because the test drive was actually the eighth try, and they apparently hadn’t changed or fixed as much as Biggs thought they needed to since the fifth.

So, the reason he boarded was actually, “Emet-Selch?”

“So I am.” Emet-Selch’s head turned just enough that he could see his approach in the corner of one eye. The complete lack of concern he regarded all of them with (whether they were armed or not, ready to fight or not) had once frustrated Thancred, but now, it was just vaguely annoying in the way that seeking out _anyone_ who didn’t really care was. “Ah. You. To what do I owe this unusual pleasure?” 

“I’ve questions for you.”

“And I am the only one with the answers? How unlucky for the both of us.” His hand dropped to the desk, his fingers tapping out a slow tempo as he turned a bit more to fully consider Thancred. “I gather that your endeavors into the unholy Mother have yielded a few poisonous fruits, then, and that you’d like to know how you might yet make use of them.”

“Something like that.” The poison part was a fitting term, anyway. “Y’shtola seems to believe if there were a way to root Hydaelyn out, your lot would have figured it out ages ago. Same with tempering.”

Emet-Selch’s eyebrow quirked up. The smirk that overtook his face was entirely mocking. “I _do_ so hope those banal statements didn’t involve the question which brought you here.”

“It’s called setting the stage,” Thancred tucked his thumbs into his coat’s pockets, resisting narrowly the urge to roll his eyes, “so that you don’t regale me with a novel-length explanation about how tempering and primals work. My question has to do with Hydaelyn’s location.”

That, at least, seemed to surprise Emet-Selch. With a light frown, he cocked his head to the side like a bird trying to figure out if a bug’s strange coloring was a warning or an invitation.

He prompted, “ _Location?_ Whatever for?”

Because it was a lot easier to think about what to do with a primal when he knew where they were concentrated. Because Hydaelyn saturated every piece of this world’s history, and yet no one ever wrote down anything of real worth on her origins or functions or even named her for what she was. Because he could tell when Emet-Selch had left the camp because, like clockwork, Cahsi became restless and unable to focus, which was a traceable fact that disturbed Thancred in a way he hadn’t really expected. Because Ryne went glassy-eyed at mentions of her without realizing it, and became so distracted when she was around Emet-Selch that she could hardly hold a conversation, and had taken to inquiring _far_ too often about Emet-Selch’s whereabouts and activities whenever the Ascian left her two-malm radius, to the point that Thancred had worked up a plan with the twins to keep an eye on her whenever he couldn’t, because he really didn’t want her wandering into whatever the Ascian was doing while she was borderline Hydaelyn-entranced. 

He couldn’t figure out the reason for the fixation beyond Hydaelyn’s interest in collecting a soul similar to her original creators. As he wouldn’t wish that fate on even his worst enemies, and Emet-Selch had by now frustratingly proved himself a ways off from _worst enemy,_ he tried to intervene where he could.

Plus, if something like tempering _did_ happen, Ryne wouldn’t have forgiven herself. Maybe not as she was, with Hydaelyn’s influence so strong within her, but the Ryne underneath would’ve been haunted. He couldn’t allow that.

“Because in this world, it seems she’s served her purpose well, and now she’s just causing problems.”

Face and voice blanking, Emet-Selch echoed, “Problems. Just now.”

“... I admit, that was a poor choice of words.” He grimaced. Yeah. Even for him, that had been tactless. He wasn’t used to being civil around Ascians. “I meant more that she’s clearly out of balance. Barring another summoning, there must be a way to put her into check.”

Like they’d done with Bahamut. Only without the Calamity, countless deaths, and ultimate sacrifice paid by someone of Louisoix’s caliber. 

Neither he nor anyone else he spoke to had any idea how to manage that, but finding Hydaelyn’s primary base of operations seemed like a fine first step.

“Without power that none of you can manage, that won’t happen,” Emet-Selch said, his mouth twisting into a nasty smirk that Thancred supposed was partially deserved.

“Maybe so,” Thancred allowed. “But we might as well try.”

“There are far better efforts with which you might waste your time.” He tapped his fingers again on the desk, an erratic beat borne from irritation. “Sowing with salt, for one. Wearing down a mountain with bare hands. Building a dam in the middle of a desert. The list goes on.”

Crossing his arms, Thancred kept himself level. “Do you know her physical location or not?” 

“If the core resides where it once had, then yes, I do. It sits in a space unto itself, and one that you would be unlikely to return from.”

“But one you could, theoretically, get us to?”

“Mark me, Scion: I definitely could. But strong as She is, it might be a place I would not return from, either. Not whole, anyway.” He said it so casually, Thancred had to frown. He continued, airily, giving the desk he sat at a mocking pat, “While we play pretend in this charming land of make-believe, I daresay this ship might get you to it once it’s operational. Is there a reason you haven’t asked your Warrior about this? From what I heard, Hydaelyn’s Chosen were frequently graced with her direct presence. I can’t imagine a blessed hero of Cahsi’s caliber had been denied such an honor.” 

“She’s,” Thancred grit his teeth, then carefully forced himself to relax, “biased.”

“Tempered.” He dragged the word out, giving it far too many syllables. Emet-Selch propped his chin on his hand again, his eyes lidding with casual derision. “A different sway than the mindless hold that you are used to, but tempering all the same.” -- Then, eyes widening in faux surprise, hand dropping to the desktop, “Ah! But this isn’t about Eris’ shard, is it? Her state is one she might yet resist, if pushed to it. The hyur child, on the other hand…”

“Careful,” Thancred warned, his eyes narrowing.

Emet-Selch was not. “She lives on borrowed time. Always has her heart and soul belonged to Hydaelyn. Putting the primal ‘in check,’ as you put it, won’t change that. If anything, it may harm her.” 

_Yes_ , he knew that. They all knew that. But, “It wasn’t an issue before,” and there it was, his bone-deep frustration, the feeling that he had to act but he had nowhere to go and nothing to do, “but something changed here. I’m looking to understand it, so I might do something about it.”

“You’re looking to fix it,” Emet-Selch said, his voice curiously gentled, though his expression remained one cruel comment away from scathing, “but there’s nothing to fix. It is as it has always been for the child. She walks in Hydaelyn’s light.”

“She’s fixated on you, in a manner that worsens by the day.” 

“So I’ve noticed.”

“What for? What does Hydaelyn even want with you?”

“Sundering,” he waved a hand in a loose, dismissive gesture, as if that was nothing at all to fret about, “or something like it. A cleansing wash for my soul through Her twisted Lifestream, which is likely the same as She had wished for those who had once upon a time piloted this ship. I would sooner embrace true oblivion than join their fate.”

That-- threw him a bit.

Thancred paused, looking at Emet-Selch with faint uncertainty. “I wouldn’t have asked you to.”

Though Emet-Selch clearly didn’t believe him, he also seemed to decide that Thancred’s intent didn’t matter overly much. That was a little annoying, but then, everything about Emet-Selch was a little annoying. Urianger claimed the man not to be as irritating as Thancred thought, that it was all about keeping reasonable expectations. Compared to Thancred, Urianger had an incredible ability to meet almost every being _exactly_ where they were. While he sometimes wished he had the same people skills, he was too impatient for it.

Point in fact: he could have spent a bit convincing Emet-Selch he meant what he said. Instead, he swallowed his pride, let out an exasperated breath, and said, “Alright. You won’t budge, and neither will Hydaelyn. What do I do for Ryne?”

Crossing one of his legs over the other, Emet-Selch again regarded Thancred with vague surprise.

“... You must be desperate to ask me that,” he said at last, his mocking lilt finally missing from his voice. When Thancred gave him a short nod of terse agreement, the corner of his lip twitched up. He set his hands on his knee and leaned forward, apparently sincere. “At present, I have little to tell you that you don’t already know. In sum: you gamble everything you have to reach Hydaelyn’s core and work a method to blind it from either its heart or my presence, which works directly against Her purpose; or, you take up arms against me, and whatever the outcome, your worries are made moot.”

“Not much one for false hope, are you?” Thancred quipped, feeling weak for it.

“Neither are you, I’d think, or you wouldn’t have come to me.”

“Yeah. Guess that’s true.”

Emet-Selch leaned back, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs and spreading his hands with palms up as if to say, _Well?_ He had nothing else to offer. He and his people had been just so damn successful at making their primals. To think even Hydaelyn, the one they all looked to time and again for blessings and protections, including Minfilia-- 

… 

Tearing his gaze from Emet-Selch’s expectant regard, Thancred muttered under breath, “It’s bitterly ironic, is all,” without feeling the need or want to elaborate.

Whether Emet-Selch’s mind followed the same tracks or not, he replied, “Incredibly,” wholeheartedly.

Questions exhausted, Thancred glanced around the command room. Although he hadn’t looked too closely when he’d entered, it didn’t seem much more impressive on his second and third glances. The only thing of note was the centerpiece. Well, and the enormity of everything. It definitely looked like a ship for Amaurotines. He was a little surprised Emet-Selch hadn’t donned his taller, masked form, but then, he didn’t even want to guess at what feelings that sort of shift brought up.

A tiny, staticky voice emanated from Emet-Selch’s ear. It sounded unbearably loud. Wedge, likely. He’d always tended toward booming (insofar as a lalafell could be) on those communicators. Emet-Selch winced slightly as he put his finger to the link pearl and listened. 

Once the chatter died down, he glanced to Thancred. “They’re about to flip the generator switch, if you’re at all interested in seeing what that may do.”

He shrugged. Sure, why not. “They didn’t sound too optimistic about it working.”

Emet-Selch sniffed, nose rising into the air like some slighted aristocrat. “Whoever _they_ are, have no idea how to appreciate the scientific process. We’ve journeyed closer to understanding with every ‘failure,’ which I greatly hesitate to label even as such. The ship has suffered no permanent loss for our inability to properly rewire it.”

 _Sure._ Okay, so that was apparently some engineering sore spot. Thancred snorted, somewhat amused, and wandered from the rows of desks to a more open aisle. Peering down to the middle, he asked, “What’s with the orb?”

“Most likely a stabilizing device. Either everything within the ship routes through it for security and final approval purposes, or it ensures the ship hasn’t deviated from its path even through such turbulent passages as the Rift.”

Thancred clicked his tongue. “Huh. How much of that is pure guesswork on your part?”

“All of it.”

Hah.

Just then, something in the walls began to rattle. Emet-Selch straightened up entirely at the noise, even his perpetual slouch disappearing as he looked around the room with keen interest. 

One by one, the desks’ tops lit up. Soft grey light emitted along the thin, neat seams of wall and ceiling panels, catching and spreading surprisingly well on the interior’s white metal. The rattle in the walls smoothed quickly into a low hum. Thanced was reminded of the hotel they’d stayed at outside of Amaurot, with the air conditioning. Spotting a small box in a top corner of the room that slowly opened to reveal vents, he realized he probably wasn’t too far off.

The orb in the center didn’t budge. He stared at it for a while, willing it to do something, but it remained exactly where it was.

Even still, he supposed the room was pretty impressive. While it was no Mt. Gulg, sprawling Amaurot, or crystal tower, it had its own flavor of _should-not-be-possible._ Thancred could respect that.

“Marvelous, isn’t it.”

Thancred glanced to Emet-Selch at the quiet observation, only to find him staring down at his desk. He tapped at the screen, pushing and pulling things that Thancred, from his angle, couldn’t see. By the red glow reflected onto Emet-Selch’s face, he knew it to be showing something different from the others, which were a blue-white.

Wedge’s staticky shouts of celebration were audible through the link pearl. Thancred watched as Emet-Selch slowly seemed to come back to himself from his fixation on the screen, at least enough that he grew annoyed with the chatter in his ear. 

Before Thancred could say a thing, Emet-Selch tugged the link pearl from his ear and tossed it to Thancred, who caught it with faint bemusement.

“-- Tell them all is working well on our end, if you would be so kind,” were the instructions he received, spoken with utmost distraction as Emet-Selch continued poking at his red screen. “I’ll be right here for the foreseeable future.”

Positive though he was that he’d been instantly forgotten for the ship, Thancred gave him a sloppy salute anyway, and popped the link pearl in. Immediately, he fought back a wince, as the staticky sound assaulted _him_ directly.

Yep.

That was definitely an overjoyed Wedge. In the background was Biggs, Alphinaud and Ryne, all equally impressed over whatever the ship was doing on the outside. No Hydaelyn, no bloodshed, just pure enthusiasm. 

Hearing their excitement, back to Emet-Selch, Thancred let himself smile.

****

. . .

“So what you’re saying is that it’ll only take input from you and Cahsi?”

“Essentially.”

“And that can’t be overridden to grant permissions to-- what did you call us?”

“Sundered shards.”

“ _Soul-based access._ That’s utterly ingenious.” Cid tapped at a glowing desktop. It continued to display its _not authorized_ warning in red on blue. He stared down at it for a moment, then threw up his hands and spun on a heel to huff and puff at Emet-Selch, “And absolutely absurd! There’s got to be a back door!”

Emet-Selch, being who he was, managed to look both highly entertained and indignant that Cid would _dare_ suggest such a thing. 

He said, “There really isn’t. I imagine it was a failsafe against this very situation.”

“Then we’ll make one!”

“This situation?” Nero joined in, as he’d proven to never voluntarily miss an opportunity to heckle Emet-Selch’s opinions regarding just about anything. “What, to thwart its utilization by hands happy to put it back to good use? That sounds like a challenge.”

“Whatever it may _sound_ like, your ever-brash approach is as likely to render it inoperable as anything else.”

Predictably (so much that Emet-Selch had to know what he was doing), that sparked Nero off. Cid did his best to ignore them, but when the screen continued to fail to magically change its access codes to allow him in no matter how much he poked at it, he turned to mediator in an attempt to get the other two back on track.

Ryne and Alphinaud watched the exchange with no little bemusement. Ryne, personally, was just happy to see the ship operational again. She’d told Alphinaud and Alisaie that strange as it was, she felt like she knew it well, even though she’d obviously never stepped foot in it before it’d been dragged up from the sands.

Cahsi had said something similar. As she’d experienced the Echo while aboard, that made sense.

Too bad Cahsi wasn’t around for its initial testing by the Ironworks team. She, Alisaie and Thancred had departed shortly after the ship powered up to route out an encroaching band of particularly well-armed and well-trained mercenaries. According to word in the camp -- supplemented by Alphinaud, who had managed to catch and speak to Estinien (who was a particularly spiky Elf that Ryne had shared only a handful of words with despite sitting next to him for numerous meals), who’d brought word back after spotting the ambush on an independent patrol -- the mercenaries had been hired by the Garlemald Commonwealth. Based on how they’d taken Gaius’ patrol by surprise, they had waited for the ship to light up before making their move. Or so everybody in Ironworks-blue _hoped_ that obvious physical sign was what tipped them off, because otherwise one of their own was feeding them information about their project’s progress.

In any case, Alphinaud had continued smoothly once he’d been elected to stay back at camp rather than head off with the group, the mercenaries posed no problem at present, _but_ reinforcements were expected. 

Ryne took that to mean she needed to make sure Thancred was well-stocked on charged cartigrates. She’d stayed back at camp to do just that, and only took a break to follow Alphinaud’s invitation to check on Cid’s progress in the command room.

The progress was, as they discovered: a whole lot of bickering and posturing.

 _Bantering_ , Urianger would call it. _As friends do._

 _Silly_ , Ryne called it. Unlike real friends, Nero took a lot of what Emet-Selch said quite personally, while Cid took Nero’s statements surprisingly literally. Their workspace was, in consequence, very noisy, and not usually in a comfortably chatty way.

At least having finally met other Garleans, she began to understand why Emet-Selch kept the form he did. It suited him, since they all seemed very forthright about their emotions and each other’s faults at any given time.

“While you two work out a method to access what I _could_ simply tell you,” Emet-Selch declared, unintentionally giving example to her private observation, “the ship’s network is currently transmitting a signal to the unknown.”

“-- What kind of signal?” Cid asked, first; then, with more affront, moving closer to Emet-Selch’s right side to peer at the screen, “Hold on. Why didn’t you mention that before?”

“Because this is still written in a language foreign to all of us.” A beat. “Moreover, they hid the page behind an absurdly nondescript icon. Anyway. It appears to be a location beacon.”

“You don’t say! Is that why we’ve suddenly got mercenaries on our ass?”

“Doubtful. Unless they’ve the means to intercept frequencies even _I_ do not recognize.”

“With a hubris that size...,” Nero muttered, rounding to Emet-Selch’s other side to see what he was looking at.

Without missing a beat, Cid added, “Everybody’s got blind spots. Bigger the ego, bigger they tend to be.”

“Note that, would you, Scaeva?” Emet-Selch replied smoothly, almost absently. Nero scoffed, taking that comment, at least, with good humor. “Note, too, this image. The leftmost circle is the ship on which we stand. The oval in the middle represents the Rift between our world and another. The dotted line is the transmission.”

The other two took a moment to study the screen.

At the end, the insulting-or-maybe-teasing edge gone from his voice, Nero said, “So it feeds in, but it doesn’t come out.”

“It may be too weak to make it across to its original destination,” Cid proposed. “We’ve already determined it’s running on far less than what it should be.”

“Or its destination is in the Rift.”

Curiosity rising swift and unexpected, Ryne took a few steps closer to the trio to make sure she heard them right. Alphinaud made a quiet noise of surprise, but quickly followed her. 

“Modern theories put the Rift’s winds at a thousandfold the force of Dalamud’s fall. Nothing sentient would willingly stay in there.”

“I believed in a similarly inhospitable environment regarding high concentrations of liquid aether,” Emet-Selch drawled, “and was proven quite wrong.”

“Maybe there really are Rift-whales, just like in the bedtime stories,” Cid joked, though they’d all been informed that Amaurotines had absolutely piloted the craft upon its crash, “only they’re mechanical.”

“And they, what, still need to connect with spaceships? To catch a space-ride out of the Rift, maybe?” Nero pointedly and obviously glanced around the command room. “The set-up doesn’t seem too fin-friendly. Aren’t their eyes on the top of their heads? How are they supposed to see their desk’s screens when they sit on the chairs?”

“Have you ever even seen a whale, Nero? Their eyes are on the _sides_ of their heads.”

“Upper sides, then.”

“That’s still not the top.”

“If you’re going off that primal you once fought, I’m sorry to tell you that they’re not a typical representation of the average natural specimen.”

“A primal might be as close to an actual Rift-whale as a normal whale would be. We wouldn’t know.”

“But you do agree that the average whale’s front fins are way too short to adequately operate this while simultaneously seeing what they were typing with both of their eyes--”

“Why would they need to type with their fins when they have a direct connection with their soul and, probably, their minds--”

“Fascinating though this conversation is, if a whale had the means to travel through the Rift, it would obviously do so under its own power. Fortunately for us, none do, lest we were stuck digging for clues in the bloated bowels of its corpse rather than this incredible, inscrutable vehicle,” Emet-Selch cut in, gesturing vaguely at his desk’s screen, “for which I’ve _finally_ located the maintenance manual. Yes, no need to say a thing; I know what you’re thinking, and you’re both welcome.”

“Congratulations on your ability to click through fifteen layers of folders with the authority granted to you by your massy soul,” Nero drawled, while also looking quite interested by the find.

Tipping his head as if accepting a high compliment, Emet-Selch continued, “In any case. The manual appears extensive. Let us translate this and begin repairing what we can. I have a feeling that we will find what raw materials we need in the storage room; and, in the event we require more quantity, we have the replicator.”

“Right,” Cid said, moving back into business mode with a new goal. “Not a bad plan. After we spruce up our dictionary with the big ticket terms, the others will be able to help organize what needs tackling.”

“If we might be of some assistance,” Alphinaud broke in then, causing Cid to jump slightly as he remembered he and Ryne were there too, “we’d be happy to help.”

“That’s great,” Cid said, scratching at the back of his neck, “since with those mercenaries at our door… Even if it won’t be Rift-ready, we should get it flying sooner than later. Move it somewhere safe.”

At that, an idea evidently occurred to Nero, as he looked sharply to Emet-Selch. 

He said, “You’re hoping to follow that signal.”

“Obviously.” Emet-Selch glanced side-long at him. “Aren’t you?”

Arms crossing, Nero considered that for no time at all before smirking and shrugging. 

“Am I ready to prove an outdated theory wrong and discover something believed to be either non-existent or extinct? Why not.”

“I highly doubt there will be whales of any variety,” Emet-Selch ‘cautioned,’ apparently finding Nero’s statement acceptable and thus shifting his attention back to the screen.

Even though he was no longer looking at him, Nero shrugged again. “Who knows. Can’t count anything out till we see it.”

**. . .**

Compiling the maintenance manual onto materials that could be taken off the ship took the rest of the day. Alphinaud and Ryne ended up helping out, as it was really just copying symbols onto paper. Ryne hadn’t realized till then just how much scholarly research seemed to be copying one thing onto another thing and then again onto yet another thing, merely improving its comprehensibility every time. The process went slowly because Emet-Selch had to keep re-entering whatever constituted his _aetherial signature credentials_ , as the screens went dark and locked them out if they weren’t interacted with by him for too long. 

It was sort of fun, in a mindless way. At least, it brought up memories of Alphinaud’s Studium days, which he freely shared. His recollections inspired Cid and Nero to go into their own days. Though Emet-Selch remained tight-lipped on personal stories (though not for lack of trying on Cid and Nero’s part to pry out embarrassing tidbits) and Ryne had nothing similar to speak of, the atmosphere soon became very comfortable, and time passed quickly.

Before they knew it, night fell, and the adventurers returned with the happy news that the mercenaries had been thoroughly dissuaded from trying again at the camp. Though they still expected a second or third wave, Cahsi and Thancred thought it would be a bit. Gaius, hearing the report, agreed.

Alphinaud immediately roped Alisaie into agreeing to help finish copying the manual in the morning, which she groaned and complained about but ultimately agreed to.

Cid called it quits for the evening around then, saying he’d rewritten the same symbol three times without realizing after his eyes kept crossing from sleepiness. He forced Nero and Emet-Selch to retire as well, all but chasing them from the command room with stern words about _working together_ and _marathon, not a sprint_ and, maybe most importantly, _if I’m not in here working, neither are you two._

To Ryne’s surprise, Emet-Selch actually listened to him and departed the ship. 

He trailed their group to the camp’s main fire pit. There, he split off to join Urianger and G’raha, who had apparently made the trip from where they studied their own side projects at Revenant’s Toll. G’raha had told them that his portals had gotten better, much to Y’shtola’s open, teasing amusement, which G’raha had clearly just been glad wasn’t derision. Apparently he could bring passengers like Urianger now with minimal exhaustion. That would be useful, depending on where they went.

Emet-Selch spoke with them for a very short amount of time. Specifically, until the late dinner for the adventurers was finally served, and the fire pit grew more crowded. As he did most nights, he took one look at the group, bid good-bye to Urianger and G’raha, and then turned away to teleport himself somewhere else. The black-purple of his portal was easy to miss in the dark between the tents, but she saw its edges flicker.

If only she _knew_ where else. 

The others said that he went to Revenant’s Toll. But that didn’t feel right. If it was just Revenant’s Toll, then--

“-- Ryne?”

She slowly pulled her gaze from the darkness Emet-Selch had disappeared into and back to her friend.

By the pinch between her eyebrows and scrunch to her nose, Alisaie had been saying something to her for a while. Whoops.

“Sorry,” she said, nervously fiddling with her dress’ hem while she fought not to break that eye contact and stare at the ground, “my thoughts were somewhere else. What did you say?”

“I was asking if you needed any more cartridges for Thancred’s bullets.” When Ryne responded that she didn’t, thank you though, Alisaie nodded absently, frowned, and then looked to where Ryne’s gaze had been. “It seemed like you’d been staring at something. What was it?”

“Oh, just,” it sounded weird, maybe, but she didn’t like lying, so, “Emet-Selch. He never joins us for dinner.”

“I didn’t notice him.”

“He’d been talking to Urianger and G’raha, then went down that alley… He teleported somewhere.”

Alisaie’s frown deepened. “... Was there something weird about that?”

Yes.

He should’ve been working on the ship. Then she’d know where he was, and then the ship would be operational sooner than later, and then, she’d know if _they_ were still in the Rift.

Ryne opened her mouth to say as much, but then took a better look at Alisaie’s confusion, and-- stopped. Forced herself to stop. To think.

In the end, she matched Alisaie’s frown with one of her own, and shook her head to clear it.

Unfortunately, it didn’t really work. She just felt more uncertain.

“... No…” she finally managed, trying her best to ignore the impulses to follow and question and _know_ that refused to abate in her thoughts, “not particularly.”

Alisaie nodded slowly, accepting that but, Ryne knew, just barely.

“You know,” Alisaie said then, raising her half-full bowl, clearly wanting to give them both an out from the conversation, “salt would improve this stew by leaps and bounds. Let’s go get some.”

Moving sounded like a great idea. Ryne nodded, and left the fire with her.

**. . .**

Garlean reinforcements arrived sooner than any of them expected.

They weren’t anything the gathered adventurers and former soldiers couldn’t handle, but the worry became less about being able to rebuff the major mercenary forces and more about the potential for spies or single agents slipping in and out of their camp _while_ the obvious attacks happened. That was, according to Jessie, a very real concern, and necessitated that they get the ship up and flight-ready as soon as possible.

The repairs were accelerated. True to Emet-Selch’s hunch, the raw materials in storage satisfied the bulk of what the maintenance logs called for. They discovered that, once emergency protocols were disengaged and the proper amount of power supplied (which meant duplicated generators), the ship itself had auto-repair systems built into the hallways. Panels opened up and took in the materials required, liquified them, and thereafter rebuilt the damaged parts. Entire pipes reformed from seemingly nothing, while wires and walls relinked and sealed themselves without direction.

Depending on who was asked, the process was either terrifying or astounding. 

In any case, it helped get the ship back to its original state.

And yet, despite all the repairs, it refused to so much as hover over the ground.

“The key’s in that damned orb,” Cid growled while the core engineering team was again gathered in the command room, frustration coloring his words and tightening his fingers around his datapad. “We’ve got to get it working.”

Emet-Selch, perched on the chair of what had unofficially become _his_ desk (the middle of the second to last row in the command room, directly across from the door), kept his eyes on his screen. The key was in the orb. That didn’t make it magically want to work for any of them.

“It needs more power,” Nero said, and Emet-Selch agreed. “A ceruleum reacto--”

“Too volatile,” Emet-Selch dismissed.

“Aethersand, then?”

“The ship’s picky about what form of aether it’ll take,” Cid sighed. “I’m guessing it interferes with whatever locks onto soul signatures.”

“Which makes electricity the safest bet, except for the part where we’d need a perpetual lightning storm to get the amount we need.”

Emet-Selch paused. Slowly, he took his hands from the screen before him, and turned his attention to Nero.

“... I can do that.” _Easily._ Why hadn’t he thought of it before! Scaeva did, it seem, have the occasional bright idea. “I’ll require a day to craft a suitable device, and the rest of the week to work up its implementation.”

“Are you joking?” Nero asked, disbelieving but not entirely so. He and Cid were at least accepting the potential of his powers, even if they failed to comprehend the extent. 

“I’m not.” Ignoring the slight indignity of having to hop down from his chair, he did so, stood, and moved to the exit. “Do your best to keep our work from being pillaged while I’m gone, hm? And tell any looking for me that I shan’t be disturbed.”

Nero accepted that surprisingly simply. “Till then. Best of luck.”

“We’ll see you soon!” Cid called, but by then, he was already out of the room.

He left the ship before he called his portal. Something about the ship’s very essence discouraged sorcery. Most likely, the ghosts haunting its halls had lived in strong opposition to magic. While he couldn’t fathom why without believing the worst, he saw no point in disregarding their wishes. 

To begin work immediately and without distraction, only one space came to mind. While he spared a brief thought about stopping in and informing G’raha that he’d be gone for more than a few days, a mere week was really nothing to either of them. Surely Garlond would calm any concerns about his absence. Anyway, if he was somehow _truly_ needed, both he and Cahsi knew how to call for him.

And so he opened his portal to his own space, and left, mind for once solely and happily focused on the work ahead.

**. . .**

That evening, the largest wave of mercenaries yet struck. They came with monster dogs on long leashes and poorly crafted but extremely flammable drones. Though poorly trained and extremely scattered, they were numerous. All Scions save Y’shtola, who hadn’t been at camp upon the patrol’s warning, lended a hand to repelling them.

“I thought Garlemald was peaceful now?” Thancred muttered to Urianger, both them, Alisaie, and Ryne lying in wait for the latest band to pass in the valley between their shadowed dune and the next. Across the sands, in the shadowed side of the other dune, Cahsi, Ardbert, Alphinaud and G’raha awaited the same. “This looks like a military excursion to me.” 

“Evidently, they have merely exchanged open banners for private armies,” Urianger responded, tired at the concept even though the fighting had yet to begin.

“As someone who had previously firmly rejected the idea, I’m starting to wonder if we should believe in Fate,” Alisaie said. “When it comes down to it, not much has actually changed.”

“Till we know more of any hidden figures’ machinations, we had best abstain from speculation.”

“Do you really think there’s Ascian-like non-Ascians out there?”

“Not at the moment, but I shan’t discount possibilities.”

Thancred blew out a tight, irritated breath. “If the next shadowy bunch wear robes or masks, I’m out.”

“If they _do_ , that’s just more reason I’m right about Fate leading us.”

“I think if there were such figures, that would actually just be ironic… right?” Ryne murmured, hoping very much it wasn’t actually Fate, because Fate had historically proved itself the most cruel. Just as she spoke, dust heralding the mercenaries’ approach swirled up from between the dunes and caught dimly in the moonlight. Readying her blades, she stood. “-- They’re here!”

Though they likely didn’t need it, Urianger summoned a mage light to tip Cahsi’s group off as to the arrival. 

Across the way, Cahsi spotted first the mercenaries’ kicked-up dust, and second Urianger’s prearranged signal.

“That’s our cue!” She grinned, pulling her book and making sure her carbuncle was at her ready. Of course she was, good battle-buddy that she was. Alphinaud’s stood nearby, _almost_ as equally excited. Alphinaud never really had gotten a taste for battle, no matter how often they had to charge into it. Giving both carbuncles a _we got this_ nod, she looked to G’raha. “-- Last chance, G’raha. Magic or sword?”

“I do believe you have the close-range more than covered,” G’raha told Ardbert, pulling his golden staff from his back. “And I’ve a few new tricks up my sleeve that I think you’ll all enjoy. Be careful of your eyes; they might be a little blinding.”

Ardbert waved him off, grinning. “Oh no, I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself. You just want to fight in the backlines with Cahsi. _I’m_ just saying, it’s a lot more fun in the front.” 

Cahsi snorted. “Lot more gross, you mean. You _are_ washing that axe when we get back.”

“Hey, I said I learned my lesson! I meant it.”

G’raha’s ears twitched and his tail wiggled a nervous, happy line, but he kept himself remarkably straight-voiced when he replied, “I find myself more effective where I have the space to plan my next attack. In addition, I admit, I never grew used to cleaning gore from my robes. Oftentimes I resorted to merely ordering new cloth, and here, I haven’t the same ‘Exarch’ discount as I did in the Crystarium.”

“Instead,” grinned Alphinaud, “you’ve Tataru, who seems to make incredible outfits appear from thin air, and Emet-Selch, who literally makes outfits appear from thin air.”

“Taking Tataru’s outfits for granted, Alphinaud?” Cahsi clucked her tongue. “For shame.”

“That wasn’t my intention! Rather, it is true that she has the remarkable ability to scavenge up high-quality materials no matter the state of our treasury--”

Thancred’s gunblade breaking the first line of enemies with a lightning shot cracked across their ears. Ardbert hastily redirected his attention to the valley, where indeed, mercenaries had met the other party head-on.

“Alright,” he said in parting, moving even as he spoke, “you all might be used to standing back and chatting between your spells, but I’m officially late. Let’s get to it!” 

Cahsi called well-wishes after him, smothering a laugh as their group followed behind him. While battles with _people_ had a tendency to end with grimmer silence than monsters, at least they could kick it off well.

Frankly, having them all there was overkill.

But it was also nostalgic. Y’shtola’s absence aside, it was the first time they’d fought together in a while. 

Unfortunately for the mercenaries, they used the chance to relearn fighting off one another in full.

(Unfortunately for the adventurers, in pursuing and rebuffing the scattered mess of enemies, they missed a man, who knew full well their strategies, donning counterfeit Ironworks-blue and sneaking into the replicator’s tent, stealing all he could carry, and setting fire to the rest.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shaggy voice from scooby doo] like, jeepers, man, why'd you have to go and do that...
> 
> aha well, thank you for reading! find me at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter if you like :]


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning:** uh,, nsfw (all consensual, includes choking) + poor mental health doin its thing, manifesting n being messy all over the place
> 
> it's been a few days since the last update! i still know nothing about engineering. if you do, enjoy this chapter, it will likely give you a laugh ;pp

“He must be up there?”

“It’s the only building with any stability, so I think so.”

Deep within the Tempest’s dark waters laid a city block half-imagined.

Not even. Seated at the end of a perfectly smooth and perfectly featureless pathway that snaked around underwater cliffs and crags was Amaurot’s capitol building. It had been broken down to its foundational pillars, its skeleton framework glowing bright with unmolded aether. A massive project started, but stalled. Considering the lack of worldly deadlines its architect faced, Cahsi and Ardbert doubted it was actually abandoned. Along the makeshift road were cleared plots of land, insomuch as purple fog rolled out to flatten the ocean floor could be called such. Following the path took them on a long, winding journey from the capitol to a mostly-finished apartment complex. It overlooked a river that ran along the base of the area’s deepest canyon. While a river was a silly thing to see at the bottom of an ocean, it answered why they’d been dropped by fae portal into an air bubble rather than seawater. The Bismarck of this First had certainly never been roused to carry them where they now stood. 

Though it was technically the first time they’d ever walked these grounds, Cahsi made her journey down the road in a surreal haze. On one hand, she now remembered first-hand how the city had been. She dimly recognized that a museum was meant for _that_ particular plot of foggy land, while Eris’ favorite coffee shop had been _there_. On the other hand, this was not the city itself, but the Tempest: the place wherein she had almost met a very messy, very painful end. 

It was strange. It would probably keep being strange.

She did her best to forge on, anyway.

The apartment complex was much more complete than the capitol building. Marble facade flawless and golden trim gleaming, light illuminated a few windows from within. Though no shadows passed the windows, as Cahsi and Ardbert watched, one room’s lights clicked off while another’s lit up. A facsimile of life, without life. 

At the sight, Cahsi shivered reflexively. “Still spooky.”

Ardbert agreed. “I liked it better when there were shades wandering around. At least it didn’t feel as… empty.”

“I’d like it better if it was a nice homage, like an interactive museum.” She glanced up and down the blank road they’d walked. Just as the fake Amaurot they’d been led through before, the light of day reached its streets despite how deep in the sea they actually were. “Actually. Maybe not. I’m not sure there’s a good way to make this place be a thing.”

The apartment building looked much like any other Amaurotine apartment building, including Eris’ place. The only difference was in the symbols above the entrance. As they’d learned, the Amaurotine interest in specialized titles hadn’t been restricted to people’s jobs. Each certified residential space had its own sigil, with varying connotations attached.

Eris’ had been known for being, in Amaurotine terms, new and all-natural. Eris liked it because it gave her more control over how she molded her room, as her magicks didn’t interfere with the apartment’s built-in accommodations. She had an entire stack of half-baked renovation plans, most of which overlapped or conflicted with one another. Once she had the time to sit down and decide what she wanted, she’d said, her apartment would be _perfect._

Privately, Cahsi hoped she’d made the time.

In contrast to Eris’, the building before them bore a title that _felt_ ancient. It likely had spells woven into its rooms that automatically vaporized dust from behind furniture, or made the bathroom bigger than should’ve been possible, or any other specific and convenient accommodation that made living infinitely easier. It was clearly for those too busy and absorbed with their day-to-day lives to bother with renovations.

Dense storm clouds gathered in a perfect square over its roof. They’d been visible from a ways up the road, but Cahsi hadn’t really understood what she was seeing until they were at the complex’s front and could hear its rumbling and crackling. Aside from the building itself being the most stable, it was a dead giveaway that the person they were looking for was atop its roof.

Storm clouds aside, the building itself looked really familiar.

Ardbert considered the title. Realizing at last why he recognized them, he fought back a sigh and said, “This is Hythlodaeus’ place, isn’t it? Eris came here a few times.”

“That’s why I recognize it! Yeah, you’re right.” Cahsi grinned. As quickly as her cheer came, however, it faded as the implications from _this_ being the building Emet-Selch decided to erect first sunk in. “ _Oh._ You’re right. That means something… not great, probably.”

Something bad, specifically.

When she looked over, Ardbert just shrugged. “We can stand out here and theorize all day, but we won’t learn anything ‘til we see for ourselves what’s going on up top.”

Considering the lightning broiling within the clouds, it at least seemed to be related to what Cid had said was Emet-Selch’s reason for leaving the camp.

Didn’t explain why he’d ignored both Cahsi and G’raha’s calls. After the fifth day of Emet-Selch being missing in action passed (and their need to move the ship had escalated from _eventually would be nice_ to _Estinien spotted Garlean airships en route to cart it out themselves so we should really, really, really get it somewhere safer_ ), G’raha had scried where he was and discovered him to be at the base of the Tempest. He hadn’t received a clear picture because of what he assumed to be the distance’s interference, but was in actuality likely the literal clouds surrounding Emet-Selch. The place alone had set off alarm bells-- though, Ardbert pointed out, were they actually that surprised?-- and so Cahsi and Ardbert set out themselves to find him.

Hopefully he was still amiable to help them.

In any case, Ardbert was right. They let themselves into the apartment complex’s lobby and thereafter into the elevator. The interior was a little bare, lacking in the expected decorative plants and wall fixtures, but was otherwise perfectly solid, clean and well-maintained. Cahsi bet Ardbert an Allagan silver coin that _most_ of the apartments were the same, with one key exception. Ardbert declined to take that bet, since he had precious little gil to lose.

The elevator led to the floor below the roof. There they climbed a short staircase to a door that, from afar, looked too big to easily open. Yet, once they reached it, it swung open with merely a touch.

Beyond its entrance were two figures. The taller sat on a low bench by the roof’s wrought-iron railing, its hood down and rounded white mask placed on a knee. Unlike the shades before it, its features were detailed in startling clarity: dimly glowing eyes, smooth grey skin, and long, white hair. It looked the picture of Eris’ and Emet-Selch’s friend, casual pose and all. To its side was a large box overflowing with festive decorations which it either had yet to put up, or had just taken down. As the rest of the roof was clear and empty for the work being done on it, Cahsi suspected the latter.

Seeing a shade of Hythlodaeus put a cold, hard rock in the pit of her stomach. The sinking feeling had less to do with Hythlodaeus, and more to do with what its presence meant for its maker.

Back set to them, Emet-Selch stood amidst a complex and shifting web of red. Thin, slowly moving ley lines hovered around his feet, extending in swooping arcs from the circle’s edge to the storm above. In the middle was a large, black box that had a glass top, within which swirled a miniaturized electrical storm. 

Though the shade immediately spotted the newcomers and nodded its head in happy acknowledgment of their arrival, Emet-Selch was too absorbed by his Concept to notice.

“... the medium is the issue, not the perpetuity,” Emet-Selch was saying, a mix of disgruntled and thoroughly engaged in whatever he was doing. He spoke in a mortal tongue, though his words had a strange slant that Cahsi guessed was an unconscious echo of the shade’s see-sawing, long-dead language. Maybe he was even talking a bit with his soul, though she wasn’t sure how that would work when one’s conversational partner was essentially a memory made quasi-flesh.

Said shade hummed, tapping its fingers on its knees. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“I only know as much as my recreator, but…”

Emet-Selch hunched lower over his box, preemptively unimpressed with whatever the shade had to say. 

When it didn’t instantly continue, he prompted with a grumble, “But what? -- Have you noticed that you only need encouragement to speak when you know that I don’t want to hear what you have to say?”

True to life, the shade ignored that. “... A perpetual motion machine was out of our reach even with the greatest resources at our beck and call. You need to break fundamental rules of physics to make it work.”

“ _It’s never too late for something new_ ,” Emet-Selch sing-songed, shooting the other a taunting grin that was probably meant to be teasing, ”isn’t that what you enjoy relentlessly repeating? Anyway, all considered, universal laws tend to be more flexible than their names imply.”

The shade shrugged, accepting the criticism easily. Then, in a move that was definitely calculated to throw Emet-Selch off his game, it said, “Since you admit to listening to what I have to say, will you finally introduce me properly to your friends?”

Playfulness dropping away, Emet-Selch frowned at it and said, “What friends?” before he followed Hythlodaeus’ gaze to the door and, at last, saw them.

Emet-Selch did not _jump._

He froze for a second, then eased himself into a taunting-and-not-teasing smirk, a hint of viciousness in the low tone of his voice. “Wow. You couldn’t last one week without me. How ever did you get along before we met?”

That was beyond rude, but before they could reply, Hythlodaeus interrupted.

“She’s one of the miqo’te you talk about. And he, the hyur.” It set its mask to the side and stood, mouth curved up in a gentle smile. “You two remember Eris, don’t you? … And me, I presume?”

“We do,” Ardbert said, sounding as stiff and discomforted as Cahsi felt. “Hello again, I guess.”

There was just no good way to determine how much this shade remembered of Eris, or their time in the real Amaurot, or even before all that, when it had met them in an equally lonely city while Cahsi crawled to her death with Ardbert set to haunt her inevitably bloody grave. Thus perturbed by the whole situation, Cahsi pinned her gaze to Emet-Selch and demanded, her malaise rising fast and obvious, ears flattening, “Emet-Selch, what’s this about?”

“I’m building a power source for the ship.” Turning back to his box, he sounded like he’d decided he was awfully unconcerned about their presence. “Whatever method brought you here can see you returned, correct? I haven’t the time to transport you myself. As you can tell, this is fairly delicate work. Lightning is ever so temperamental, and I'd hate to have to take a break to scrape your charred bodies from the roof.”

“Such pleasant imagery to give your guests,” the shade sighed.

“Once, they were invited guests. Now they are merely trespassers,” Emet-Selch muttered.

Crossing her arms, tail lashing unhappily, Cahsi said, “I think you’re fully capable of controlling your creations. There’s no need to threaten us just because you didn’t expect us to be here.”

“Oh,” the fake Hythlodaeus commented, “she is just like Eris, isn’t she? You should listen to her.”

This time, Emet-Selch pretended not to hear it. 

“I shan’t veil my intentions, then,” he replied, words lethally light, “which are for you to _leave._ ”

“We aren’t the only ones who shouldn’t be here,” Cahsi shot back, with a small glance to the shade. She understood Emet-Selch wanting to recreate his city-- thought it a slippery slope, yes, but a reasonable one, considering the Tempest’s nearby ruins-- but the shade… boded ill. Especially with how Emet-Selch had been talking to it before they arrived, so candid and friendly. As if that were the real Hythlodaeus. It _was_ convincing, she'd give it that, especially as looking at it prompted her to belatedly add, “No offense,” something in her embarrassed about insulting it when it hadn’t really done anything except look like a dead friend, and that hadn’t even been its own decision. It _was_ a great recreation. Except that urge right there, the one telling her to treat it as if it were living? Was a big part of why it was so dangerous to engage with.

In response, it shrugged again, accepting the criticism easily. Easily as ever, really. 

It said, “Oh, I know. Little though I desire to be left alone, I’ve told him to stop visiting many times. In a way, I’m little more than a crutch, aren’t I?”

“That… might be right,” Ardbert said, his discomfort tightening his throat and strangling the sincerity from his words, “though I doubt it’s our place to say.”

It nodded, looking again to its recreator. “I do worry for the day I lack that self-awareness, and what that might mean.”

“Was it the Exarch that sent you this way?” Emet-Selch asked then, yet again ignoring their exchange with the shade.

“He figured out where you were,” Cahsi said, “after both he and I called for you, and you didn’t respond.”

“I sensed you were in no true peril, and so continued my work.” He sighed, casting a forlorn look to the glass top of his box. Caressing its side and coaxing its tiny bolts of blue to follow his hand, he continued, words so dragged out as to be mockingly dramatic, “Apparently, _any_ trouble is now too burdensome for you to handle alone. It’s fine. I’ll accept my portion of responsibility for feeding into your dependence. I should have retired my services long before you reached that point.”

“That point,” Cahsi echoed dully. “Of, what, considering you somewhat reliable? I’ll admit, I fell a bit for that.”

“I was referring more to the point that you would believe me to be at your beck and call for every little inconvenience.” 

Wait, what? If he'd heard their calls, then he knew their reasons for coming, and as far as anyone except an immortal might reckon, a sabotagued camp and fleet of Garlean airships wasn’t a minor inconvenience! Moreover, did Emet-Selch really think he was just some kind of tool in their arsenal? Was that his pride talking, keeping him from putting himself on their level, or remnants of his ancient grudge?

She gaped, struck momentarily dumb by the return of-- of- 

_Emet-Selch at his peak idiocy,_ as Eris put it. She’d fumed nonstop at his decision to submit himself to Olimbos. Cahsi felt a similar anger rise again over this new, ridiculous misconception. _Stubborn and spiteful to the very end! He’d stay in the middle of a burning house if it meant he didn’t have to accept help with putting it out!_

“More like we were worried about you,” Ardbert said, remaining reasonable even while Cahsi fought not to just snap back about how obtuse Emet-Selch was being, “since you’d disappeared off the literal face of the Star, and then we learned you were here, of all places.”

At that, Emet-Selch gave them a vague frown. Rather than acknowledge the first half of Ardbert’s sentence, he focused on the part that pricked his pride. “Now, that’s just rude. This _is_ my home you’re talking about.”

He didn’t get it. Or, he didn’t want to admit he was in the wrong. Either way, he was as likely to budge as a mountain was to suddenly crumble. Cahsi pinched the bridge of her nose tight, then dropped her hand and took a firm step toward him.

“By this point, I’d like to think you’ve found a new home. I understand you miss Amaurot,” she said, “and for very good reason, but it’s not your home. Not any longer. It’s gone.”

The cloud above them rumbled, its lightning jumping closer to its turbulent edges. Fortunately it held its shape, but Cahsi couldn’t help except see it as a warning, if not a threat. 

She realized then she’d grown somewhat complacent, as the very _hint_ of a true threat shocked her. She’d thought he’d changed. 

He had, probably. In the past, there wouldn’t have been a warning.

“I know that,” Emet-Selch responded, terse. As if her reminder was an unnecessary jab, rather than a truth he very obviously struggled to accept. “But it doesn’t change what you see around you.”

“What, a ghost town?”

Emet-Selch turned to face her, raising to his full height from his usual slouch. Above him, thunder again rumbled ominously. 

“Ah,” the shade calling itself Hythlodaeus hedged, “perhaps another comparison would be more palatable?”

Emet-Selch growled, “Honestly! A home is a home. Let it be haunted; what harm have the dead ever wrought? If anyone should understand, it’s you, Eris--”

Oh, hells no!

“Eris?!” Cahsi tensed all over, her tail puffing out with indignation. She finally lost her battle with her temper and stomped forward, making to grab him by the lapel and give him a good, hard shake. Ardbert reached out to snag her shoulder and pull her to a stop, but she dodged his grab and continued on her path. “Do I look like Eris to you?!”

“Cahsi! That’s not what he meant!”

“Were that you might measure up to her abilities,” Emet-Selch snarled, grabbing her wrists as her hands closed on his jacket, stopping her from rattling him to see if anything was actually left in that thick skull of his, “rather than be an amalgamation of her most troublesome pieces.”

“She let you get away with far more than I ever would’ve, that much is true!”

“By which you mean that she had a respect for autonomy, if only so that she might carve her own path to destruction without hypocrisy!”

“ _Oh_ , buddy, when it comes to self-destruction--”

Snarling a low _I don’t have time for this_ , he summoned his magicks and shoved her away with a sudden gust of wind. She stumbled two steps, then straightened her glasses and leapt right back into his face, shoving him back with a burst of heat magic -- just enough to let him know she was serious! Thereafter they abandoned the magics and locked themselves in a very poor tussling match, staggering away from the black box as they bit and snarled at one another.

She accused, “For someone so smart, how can you be such an idiot!”

“Oh, trust, the feeling is mutual! It boggles the mind _how_ you managed to become such a thorn in our side when you can barely see beyond your own nose. Have you considered getting your prescription checked?”

“Maybe if you actually remembered what it was like to have and support your friends, you wouldn’t have failed!”

Even as she said it, she regretted it. For all his faults and the myriad of reasons his plans fell through (or, worse, fell _far_ short, as Zodiark had), no one could doubt the love for his people that he’d carried across the eons and stars. She was just pissed off.

Unfortunately, so was he. Lip curling, teeth bared, he jerked back as if struck. At the same time, lightning broke from the cloud above. A brilliant white bolt streaked along the red ley lines to leave smoldering scorch marks upon the roof. Covering her face from the wash of heat to follow, Cahsi kept her feet. Once it had passed, she dropped one hand to her grimoire and fisted the other in his lapel with a wordless snarl, ready to start a real fight there and then. He again snagged the wrist at his lapel, his grip tight with a promise of retaliation if she so much as twitched.

“Keep at it, you two, and you’ll be starting this contraption from scratch.”

While they’d snarled and snapped at one another like yapping dogs, Ardbert had rounded them and pulled his axe on Emet-Selch’s little project. Perhaps knowing enough about the backlash of an interrupted spell, he kept himself from smashing it open immediately. Nonetheless, his scowl clearly communicated that he was very ready to suffer the consequences if it meant they’d stop bickering.

Indeed, once they looked to him and realized what he meant to do, he continued with a sharp, “Knock off the petty squabbling, and calm down.”

“Rebuilding that will take me far less time than your recovery from its backlash would take you,” Emet-Selch bit back. 

“Your regret would then last as long,” Hythlodaeus cut in, “if only for how you forgot yourself.”

Ardbert raised both of his eyebrows. “Both results sound like they’ll be really annoying for everybody. Sounds like it’d be much better for you two to listen to us.”

A small hesitation. His grip on her wrist squeezed to bruising. She, for one last good measure, gave his jacket a harsh, _don’t even try me_ tug. After that last little spat of posturing, Emet-Selch released Cahsi’s wrist and forcefully brushed the front of his jacket off, clasping the end and straightening it as he did. In the same sweep, Cahsi begrudgingly let go and stepped back.

When Emet-Selch turned to Ardbert, he pointedly put his back to Cahsi. She glared daggers into the side of his head, rubbing the ache from her wrists while he wasn’t looking. 

Ardbert eyeballed them both. Whatever he saw-- Cahsi, for once, couldn’t guess-- made him keep his axe up.

Emet-Selch, his composure returning quickly (or, more likely, his frustration burying itself deep into his heart, where he always left it to fester and rot), raised his hands in peace. 

“A minor scuffle. I apologize.” He didn’t sound sorry in the least. In fact, he’d started smirking again, though it masqueraded as a lazy smile. “We both allowed ourselves to become a little heated. You two, from a few minor inconveniences and miscommunications; me, from your reckless traipsing around my city.”

Ardbert didn’t buy it. 

“You could’ve told one of us that you’d returned to this place,” he said. “Whether you believe we’re your friends or not, you’re stuck with us. That’s what being part of this group means. And, Cahsi and me, we really _do_ get it.”

“Nope,” Cahsi huffed, “don’t include me in that. I really don’t.”

Ardbert sent her a long-suffering look, silently begging her not to undo his hard work at getting them to step back from a fighting match. “What she means--”

“No! I don’t get it!” She pointed at the shade. “Everyone did so much to help you out. Eris always gave you the benefit of the doubt, even when what you said meant the end of her whole life. And Hythlodaeus, he wouldn’t want you relying on some fake him! _And,_ this Amaurot, it’s just-- just-... sad! Weren’t you supposed to be doing better than this?”

“Fine, _I_ get it.” Ardbert lowered his axe, the tip set slowly to the ground. “All this makes sense to me. But what doesn’t make sense is you going it alone. If you do, you’ll end up right where you were.”

“The ease with which you harp on the magic of teamwork,” Emet-Selch replied, voice hardening as he spoke, “when I am guaranteed to outlive not only you, but your children, and your children’s children, displays _such_ short-sightedness that I fear you’ve made yourselves blind.”

Shaking his head, Ardbert said, “What you’re doing here is the easy solution. That’s what’s short-sighted.”

Cahsi ground her teeth together, but forced herself to calm enough to level out her voice.

She said, “Believe it or not, we actually were worried about you. Some more than most.” As G'raha's open fretting came back to her, a deep frown cut across her face. “ _G’raha_ the most. I thought he was going to shed enough for bald spots when he realized you weren’t coming back when we called. For somebody who usually keeps his worries pretty close to his chest, it must’ve gotten pretty bad for us to notice.”

“As _Garlond_ should have explained my reasons for departure,” Emet-Selch sniffed, “your worry was misplaced. I had work to do. In addition, your situation was clearly not so dire as to require intervention.”

“He was convinced that he’d miscast the spell, and that you couldn’t hear him.” Cahsi narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s a bit of a sensitive subject for him, for obvious reasons.”

Emet-Selch’s eyes shifted to hers, then away. 

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. 

“Then this was a fantastic opportunity for him to work on his insecurities. I hope he used it well.”

“He let slip some funny stuff, actually.” Her tail twitched, thoughtfully. “I know you’ve been helping him with the Tower, but it sounded like he expected more from you than that.”

Sensing she was digging and undoubtedly wanting to head her off, Ardbert broke in. “Helping him with the Tower is already trusting someone more than normal.”

“That it is,” Emet-Selch agreed, otherwise maintaining his dismissiveness.

“Which is exactly why you should’ve been in contact with him,” Ardbert continued, near-glaring at him.

“Perhaps. Regardless, I can’t imagine one week to be that great of a burden on him. He waited far longer for _you,_ Warrior of Light.”

Cahsi almost growled. “It _is_ , actually. Because, despite how you bring it up as a reason for shame, you seem to forget that we don’t have your countless years. A week can feel like a lot.”

“Then that’s yet another thing for him to work on. In a way, I’ve been very generous.”

“Emet-Selch,” the shade admonished, its expression and tone overtly disappointed. Though Emet-Selch spared it a brief glance, he otherwise held fast in cold shouldering its existence. Cahsi almost felt bad for it, if only because its shoulders and face drooped far downward with dismay.

“Why’s it something he has to work on?” Cahsi demanded. “Obviously he’ll be alive longer than the rest of us, but what makes you so concerned about that?”

“Need there be another reason than another being’s potential immortality?”

“Yeah, Cahsi,” Ardbert said, turning his frown toward her, “what are you getting at, exactly?”

“Fine! I’ll be blunt.” Stepping closer again, she prodded a finger into Emet-Selch’s chest. When he swatted it away with the back of his hand, she just put it back and prodded harder. “Are you two involved?”

Ardbert smothered a disbelieving laugh into his hand.

He cut it off pretty fast when Emet-Selch didn’t say anything.

Instead: silence. Even the storm clouds above seemed to freeze, no lightning or thunder resounding from its confines.

In it, a few things clicked into place in Cahsi’s brain. Emet-Selch’s hovering around G’raha, even after the Tower’s secrets had expired in usefulness. G’raha inviting them to Azys Lla for an entire day, while he and Emet-Selch maintained the strangest tension between them. G’raha disappearing from the ball’s dancing hall and returning with Emet-Selch. Even more recently, G’raha following her around far less, and Emet-Selch far more. How he’d watched him disappear into the tent after he’d woken her up a little rudely, as if she were any other friend.

She turned her finger-poking into placing two hands flat against Emet-Selch’s chest and giving him one hell of a shove, accusing: “You are! And you didn’t tell us!”

“ _Because_ I knew you would react like this,” he countered, staggering back a step but otherwise, surprisingly, keeping his hands and magicks to himself. Maybe because he knew that wasn’t a good reason at all! It was, in fact, an awful, super sketchy reason!

“React like what?! Like we actually care about what happens to him? Gods! You _have_ forgotten what it’s like to have friends!” She balled her hands into fists at her side, wishing absurdly for an easily-accessed level of magic that she’d never had, save by proxy with Eris. “You’re _involved_ , and you ran off for a week without even directly telling him-- I can’t believe you!”

“I had _work_ to do!” 

“He’s not some machina you can press the pause button on and return to when you feel like it, you absolute buffoon.”

“I know that! I also know he’s a little more resilient than you apparently give him credit for.”

“He’s used to people leaving and not coming back because they got turned into _sin eaters._ ”

“That is hardly a problem in--”

“Whether it’s likely to happen _to you_ isn’t the issue! It’s the-- it’s-- agh!” She threw up her hands, forcing herself to take a few steps back before she actually punched him in the face. “I wasn’t expecting this. I can’t have this conversation right now. -- No, wait! I can.” She took a deep, deep breath, exhaled even slower and, finally, leveled a glare at him. “We care about him. A lot. We care about his big heart and its general well-being. But, as far as I’m aware, he hasn’t gotten close to anyone in nearly a century. He’d even kept Lyna at arm’s length. He definitely hasn’t gotten _involved_ with anyone.” 

Emet-Selch opened his big mouth, clearly about to interrupt. 

Cahsi lashed her tail and said, “Don’t tell me if I’m right or not, I _don’t_ want to know. Regardless, he’s now close with us, and apparently,” a lip curl, though she’d have regretted such open derision under any other circumstances, “he’s also close with you. Closer than I thought. Unless you somehow shut down your entire brain, you know that means he’d do almost anything for you.”

Emet-Selch sneered. It was a supremely ugly look on him. 

He said, with all the confidence of the blissfully ignorant, “We have a very different relationship than you and he.”

She folded her arms. “Knowing him, I don’t think you do. I’m happy to hear that you haven’t pushed his boundaries enough to figure it out, but I want you to understand…”

“... If you do, you’ll have made no few enemies,” Ardbert finished, hefting his axe far too casually onto his shoulder.

Hands tightening on her arms, heart pounding as if she were actually gearing up for a fight, Cahsi nodded. _New, old enemies_ , she thought privately, spying how Hythlodaeus watched them from the corner of her eye. 

Emet-Selch regarded them both. For once, he didn’t put on disinterested airs, or smirk and taunt, or anything else that said he thought they were playing some kind of sick, convoluted game. His eyes narrowed, his mouth thinning, but he didn’t try to evade their point. That was a little heartening, Cahsi figured, in the sea of general shit this whole conversation had brought up. 

When he finally spoke, it was more reasonable than she’d expected. 

The level-headedness must’ve been something he’d gotten from prolonged exposure to G’raha. Had to be.

“Fine. You’ve made your overprotective tendencies abundantly clear. Far be it from me to question your integrity by challenging them. Now, aside from warning me away from behavior I had no intention of engaging in,” he propped a hand on his hip, “what else do you hope to gain from this conversation?” 

“I’m hoping you understand that he’s going to need a little more communication than you’re used to.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“Maybe intellectually, but I mean, you have to _really_ know that. He notices the small things. And the big things. And the in-between things.”

Flatly, “In other words, he notices everything?”

“Yes,” she glared, “ _everything._ So, be better.”

He turned his eyes skyward. “Please, don’t get _too_ peculiar with your requests, hero; I might actually feel the need to change something.”

“You want specificity? Alright, here! Enough sneaking around as if your relationship is some big secret. It’s creepy.” Except. Okay. A bit of her understood very well why they snuck around. Just thinking of the others’ reactions, especially those who would question G’raha’s taste far more than Emet-Selch’s, made her wince. Nonetheless, she steeled herself and continued with, “... But, we’ll let G’raha know that we know, and go from there regarding everyone else.”

“Enough hiding this recreation project of yours, too,” Ardbert added. “If you don’t tell G’raha, we will.”

 _We will?_ Cahsi thought (the fake city they stood in was a whole can of worms that even she didn’t really feel comfortable busting the lid off of), but kept her face straight as she backed him up with another nod.

Predictably, _that_ was what Emet-Selch perceived as a threat, as he flattened his gaze and drawled his response, “Between the Tower’s incomplete modifications, the Scion’s tentative trust, and Garlond’s project that I am in the _midst_ of furthering, we've quite a few irons in the fire. Do you truly want to rock the boat now with your big ideas of how to fix something that isn’t broken?”

“A big demand would be asking you to break things off and leave him alone.” She eyed him. “But, I’ve got a feeling you’d put a little more effort into thwarting our efforts to back that particular request.”

By his scoff, eyeroll, and exaggerated one-shouldered shrug, she was right.

She continued with, “What we’re asking for right now is a reasonable degree of certainty that you aren’t just,” she waved a hand, fighting for the right word but having to settle for an inadequate, “playing around with him.”

Because Emet-Selch seemed like the type, at least when it came to dealing with mortals. Because G’raha deserved far better than to be yanked around like that. Because it overall just made Cahsi worry, really worry, and so she needed some amount of assurance.

 _Because,_ legitimate concerns aside, she felt culpable. She knew she didn’t owe G’raha anything _like that_ , but she was well aware that he’d have happily reciprocated the slightest hint of romantic interest. She imagined he would’ve reciprocated even after he knew her heart really belonged in Doma. She knew that because even though no one talked about it, there was no way she’d actually been as subtle with Hien as she’d liked to believe. Even without reciprocation, G’raha had been set on following her to the end of her days, so long as she was alright with it.

The thing was, she wasn’t alright with it. He needed his own life. Once upon a time, she’d played her own game of unrequited love with a white-haired Seeker who had no time between her studies and Scion duties for romantic trysts of any sort. Nothing but heartbreak and awkward, lonely nights came of it.

She just hoped Emet-Selch was a natural result of G’raha’s new life, rather than some kind of hang-up involving her. 

She hoped that _especially_ if the relationship went south.

Was it a selfish thought? Maybe. It was also an uncomfortable truth.

Anyway--

“... Still, you’ve got part of a point,” Ardbert said, thoroughly derailing her train of thought. Cahsi tried not to question him too obviously with her eyes. He caught the look, and gave her a _sorry, but he does_ look back. “We’ve been handling the situation at the Burn fine for now, but there’s airships en route to the camp, and no telling what they’re packing or if we’ll be able to fend them all off before they land a lucky shot. We need the ship moved, and fast.”

“Hold on, we’ve repelled far worse than some airships,” Cahsi began, protesting, “and with Estinien willing to help--”

He shook his head before she could even finish. “Got to keep our eyes on the immediate problem. We can have the chat with G’raha after.”

“I loathe to put it through a portal,” Emet-Selch said, which clearly wasn’t what Ardbert expected him to say, “considering I understand close to nothing of its composition or systems. Rather, I must needs finish crafting this energy source so that it might fly again of its own volition.”

If he was happy about the G’raha conversation being shoved back, he didn’t sound or look it. But then, Cahsi uncharitably thought, that would require him acknowledging that he actually cared about something other than his original people with an emotion other than rage or disgust.

“Nuclear.”

At the unexpected voice, Emet-Selch’s eyebrow twitched. Cahsi and Ardbert blinked at each other.

All three looked to the shade. It gazed back at them with a gently amused expression.

Emet-Selch at last deigned to acknowledge its presence in _their_ presence, saying, “Excuse me?”

“That was what I was trying to tell you before they arrived. The ship reacts poorly to magical solutions, correct? And yet you’ve been trying to bottle a lightning storm when plain nuclear power would work just fine.”

Whatever that was supposed to mean, Emet-Selch didn’t sound impressed. “Then the problem becomes stabilizing its waste.”

“You’re more than capable of working that out.” The shade gestured at the black box. “You’ve already the prototype.”

Warming to the idea in what had to be record time for a turn-around, Emet-Selch considered the box more closely. With the heat of their debate waning from the air, Cahsi admitted to herself that Emet-Selch really did seem invested in his project out of a genuine desire to see it work. Though Eris had complained that the ‘new’ Emet-Selch lacked the passion and devotion for his projects that he once had, Cahsi hadn’t really understood. Watching him inspect the box with bright and open curiosity, the red of his ley lines again beginning to turn again as he released whatever hold he’d placed on them, she saw the edges of who Eris had once known. They had apparently worked very well together, such that they’d verged on taking their friendship out of the office. It was no wonder Eris had been so disappointed by Emet-Selch’s abrupt change in personality.

But now, it seemed not all of the original him had been lost to time.

She’d sooner chew her own arm off than admit that, though. At least, not now, and probably not in the near future. Maybe in the distant future when G’raha decided whether he’d made the right choice in Emet-Selch. And, also, after a few strong drinks.

“It would require extensive modifications. The glass will need to be switched out or enhanced for shielding. Potential radiation leaks would need to be accounted for without requiring the ship to land on solid ground.”

“‘Extensive’ is not what I would call those things.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he murmured, tone distracted, “as neither would I.”

That admission made the shade smile wider than before.

Cahsi and Ardbert exchanged a look. Cahsi wondered whether the exchange was a good thing. In response, Ardbert shrugged, clearly thinking it might be but unable to say one way or another.

“... Right,” Cahsi ventured, her attention shifting slowly back to Emet-Selch, “so, that means--?”

“Might you two be able to entertain yourselves for the rest of the afternoon?” He asked, as though they hadn’t just been close to biting each other’s heads off. Compartmentalizing was not _just_ G’raha’s strength, evidently. “I shan’t need longer to finish this.”

Her first instinct was to demand that they stay right there and keep an eye on him. After the emotionally fraught conversation, it only seemed appropriate.

But, Ardbert tended to have a more level head about those kinds of things. He proved it by saying, “Sure, we can do that. Feo Ul would be happy to spend some time with their ‘little sapling,’” and then, before Cahsi could defend her honor for being called that in front of Emet-Selch, he asked, “Seto’s still around, isn’t he?”

Caught off guard yet again, Cahsi blinked. They’d had this talk when they’d woken on the First, before they’d returned to the Source. 

“I thought you didn’t want to upset him by visiting and then leaving again?”

“I think I was more worried about how I’d react,” he admitted, bluntly honest. “But now, that seems a little… cowardly. Anyway, Emet-Selch, we’re going to hold you to that deadline.”

While they spoke, the cloud above them folded in on itself. Compacting smaller and smaller, it finally dissipated into a few eddying wisps of vapor and harmless sparks. The red lines that had stretched into its mass fell as water back to his grounding circle, the ley lines churning steadily.

Already re-absorbed into his work, Emet-Selch waved them off without so much as a by-your-leave. 

The Hythlodaeus shade bid them a better goodbye, which included an assurance that it would keep him on track.

“I feel much more comfortable with him using me as a sounding board than a friend,” it admitted, “though the core of me wishes I could provide both.”

That was a level of self-awareness even Cahsi couldn’t entirely stomach. 

Its contrite tone, perfectly matched to the Hythlodaeus she knew, brought old and new memories to the forefront of her mind. Most belonged to her own view point: half a soul, gazing up. Some, however, met Hythlodaeus nearly eye-to-eye, and certainly mask-to-mask. Those memories yearned for the shade to actualize into the real thing with such an intensity, she didn’t know how her puny, mortal heart was supposed to handle it. How long had it been since they’d seen each other? It felt like far longer than barely a half-year. More like fifty lifetimes had passed since he’d taken her final message...

The memories, lethally sharp underneath the blurred edges, summoned heartache and headache both. Were she to consciously follow them further, they threatened to slip entirely from her grasp; and, worse, she would surely spiral into wondering what, aside from memory, divided her from Eris. This Amaurotine haunting ground was neither the time nor space to do so.

She wondered if Ardbert had similar thoughts (and later, learned that he did). She’d ask once they were topside.

In any case, the shade was clearly being nice. She thanked it and bid it good-bye, saying she would see it again very soon.

**. . .**

When the Warriors and Emet-Selch returned from the First, Ardbert and Cahsi brought glad tidings for the Scions and G’raha. While they gathered just within the command room and fell naturally into providing general updates about how so-and-so fared, Emet-Selch brushed by them, dropped an ominously large, black, oval-shaped contraption onto the desk next to Cid, and without further preamble, launched into an incredibly detailed description of how to hook it into the mainframe. Apparently, it required a significant quantity of coolant to operate safely.

By Emet-Selch’s estimation: implementation, activation, and the inevitable troubleshooting would take until the next day’s sun reached its zenith. After Cid and Nero thoroughly exhausted their arguments against his idea, they acquiesced that it was, _considering their time restraints_ , a decent solution with a better-than-middling chance of working. Both then, with varying levels of tactlessness, commented that it was _almost_ worth Emet-Selch disappearing for a week without leaving any forwarding address. 

Insofar as the three were concerned, that was practically a five-star review.

Accepting that praise with all the grace of a being very used to winning, Emet-Selch had nodded, fetched a particular box of clear cables from the scattered supplies, and told them to get to work on implementation. He’d return by the early morning to help with the activation and troubleshooting.

“Whoa, hold on. That’s it? You’re going to run off again when we’ve just--”

“I’ll be near Revenant’s Toll.” Was his dismissive answer, which of course caught G’raha’s attention. “I’ve matters to attend to. I trust you can manage by yourselves for another half-day.”

“If we get it set up quicker than your estimation,” Nero said, “we’re not waiting for you before flipping the switch.”

“I highly doubt early activation will be a problem. Best of luck, gentlemen. Do try not to blow up the ship while I’m gone.” 

And with that lackluster farewell, he turned his gaze to G’raha. 

Not having expected the attention, G’raha blinked back at him for one stunned moment before returning his gaze and ears to Cahsi. He tried his best to look like he hadn’t been eavesdropping. He probably wasn’t very successful. By Cahsi’s strangely scrutinizing look that morphed into a completely unnecessary glare toward Emet-Selch (and, when he noticed hers, Ardbert’s exasperated frown), he’d failed to be subtle on multiple levels.

It proved to not matter, as Emet-Selch approached him directly thereafter. He asked for a moment of his time in private. Surprised, G’raha agreed, hastily excused himself from the group, and trailed Emet-Selch from the command room.

Though they shared no words within the ship, once they were outside, G’raha asked, “What is the--?” and Emet-Selch said, “I have been informed that I caused you some manner of grief throughout my time away.” 

G’raha stiffened.

… And forcibly relaxed, as Emet-Selch watched him keenly, without blinking. 

“Hardly,” he rebuffed. “I had merely imagined that you would have liked to be informed of the fire sooner rather than later.”

That was news, apparently, as a question mark all but drew itself over Emet-Selch’s face.

“The fire rendered the replicator inoperable,” G’raha supplied in answer. “During a battle. One of our own turned coat, or so Cid believes based on the missing documents.”

Rocking back to his heels, Emet-Selch threw up his hands in disgust. “That little fact poses a _significant_ obstacle to our voyage into the Rift. Incredible that it managed to escape mention.”

“I don’t suppose you would be able to replicate it?”

“Replicate the replicator?” He scoffed. “Not without the notes, and not without far more time than we have.”

“Beyond relocating this ship to safety, I wasn’t aware we were on a deadline.”

“Currently, we aren’t.”

“... Then what has given you reason to believe that we might soon be?”

“The signal. No, a feeling. Nothing more, nothing less.” He glanced around the camp which had, while he was gone and under the pressure of the encroaching Garleans, cloistered closely to the ship. Where they stood, no others lingered in sight, but that was sure to change without warning. “Have you a moment to spare?”

“What else do you think I am doing right now?”

With a ghost of a smile, Emet-Selch refocused on him. “Let us retire to where we have become accustomed, then.”

**. . .**

After teleporting to the Tower, G’raha expected to talk.

He knew Emet-Selch had returned to his manufactured Amaurot. That was, G’raha supposed, inevitable. Having gathered the reason from Cahsi, he knew now, too, that though his calls had reached the other, he’d been too absorbed in his work to respond. That left little to discuss, but there was something to dig into, G’raha was sure. There always was, between them.

They arrived in the Ocular.

Glancing around its vaulted ceiling and star patterns, Emet-Selch murmured absently, “I’m yet impressed that your wards have held.”

“Honestly? Me, too. I’m happy that they have, of course, but it had been somewhat a gamble. I doubt its original creators, whomever they were in this timeline, had fathomed the need to hide from much of anything, let alone a primal as great as the Mothercrystal herself.”

Emet-Selch didn’t reply to that. He shifted his eyes from a particularly detailed constellation above the main screen to G’raha.

A shiver ran down G’raha’s back, making his ear twitch as it sought the source. He felt as though a hand had dropped to the nape of his neck, but the only other person in the Tower was the one which stood a good arm’s length in front of him. Though he cast his mind about the Tower, he found nothing out of place. Its systems woke and warmed immediately to welcome his return after a five day absence. It keyed in to his attention, ready and able to provide him whatever he needed if only he would ask. It was as a light, happy presence that stuck to the back of his throat, begging him to let an order roll off his tongue. It faced no trouble; was he not just discussing how well its wards had held?

Swallowing past the impulse to meddle into its workings, he assured himself of the Tower’s fine state and refocused on Emet-Selch.

Bright, golden eyes pinned him to the spot.

“Have we retired for you to stare at me?” The joke fell flatter than he intended. “We could do that anywhere. Costa del Sol is supposed to be nice this time of year.”

“So I’ve heard as well.” Emet-Selch smoothed one hand down his own jacketfront in a move G’raha was tempted to term as _fidgeting_. He proposed, oh-so-lightly, “Why not Amaurot?”

G’raha’s smile died before it could even really begin. “All I know of that place is that it tends to disagree with visitors like me.”

“It’s also fairly empty, in every sense of the word.”

“If it were not a bubble of air at the bottom of a sea, it may fare better at attracting foot traffic.” 

Taking the staff from his back, he unstuck himself from beneath Emet-Selch’s piercing gaze and made for the reading room’s entrance. While he was here, he might as well dig up the old journals that he knew would be helpful for the Tower’s ever-continuing modifications.

By the soft steps that set to following him, Emet-Selch was not done.

That was fine. He expected them to talk.

Emet-Selch said, “The wrong guests would mistake their boundaries. The city might suffer for it.”

“The right host would ensure his guests are comfortable,” G’raha dismissed, “and his city welcoming. Some hosts may find this more difficult than others. Some may even deign to recognize that they have a reputation for poor manners, and put effort toward correcting that perception.”

“No matter their skill, a host cannot be present at all hours.”

“None insist that he should be. Only when he expects company.”

“How can he expect company which refuses to voice his intention or desire to visit?”

“I don’t want to visit your Amaurot.” Entering the reading room, G’raha leaned his staff by the door. He made sure to keep his eyes away from Emet-Selch. It was obvious now that he was in a mood that G’raha could not meet head-on, lest it spark into something far worse. “It’s your home. Your space. Not mine.”

A hand fell upon his staff’s sceptre. Its arm effectively barred his exit to the left, and boxed him into the wall. He frowned at it, his ears pinning and tail drooping.

Emet-Selch leaned in close, crowding along his back. 

“You’ve welcomed me here, into your home. Your space.” G’raha held very, very still. He could easily step aside and out of Emet-Selch’s looming presence, but he didn’t. Something in the air encouraged him to remain where he was. A tremor ran, barely detectable, down Emet-Selch's hand upon his staff. “It’s only proper I do the same.”

“What would I find there that I wouldn’t like?” G’raha wondered aloud, head tilting.

“What is there not to like in Amaurot?”

“ _Your_ Amaurot? Based on prior experience, plenty.” G’raha took in a slow breath, then turned around. He had to crane his neck back to meet Emet-Selch’s eyes. When he did, they were just as difficult to meet as they had been in the Ocular. Wide with intent, expression otherwise blank by an emotion G’raha dare not ascribe lest Emet-Selch discover he occasionally thought him _sad_ , the gaze weighed a thousand tonnes. “Bound though I may have been to the Tower, never have I let it rule me. I’m not entirely sure you could say the same.”

“I couldn’t,” Emet-Selch admitted, “most likely. I haven’t bothered to try.”

“I’m not sure you should.”

“No?”

“As long as you aren’t dragging people to its depths,” and given that they were having this discussion, he doubted that to be the case, “then with every visit, you’re only punishing yourself.”

Emet-Selch searched his face. The tremor that had been in his hand reappeared at the corners of his mouth, which couldn’t seem to decide if they wanted to turn down or not. He still wasn’t blinking. His gaze grew yet heavier, lined as it was with a demand or question G’raha definitely couldn’t answer. Resolving not to shrink away, G’raha held his ground and refused to flinch.

“I should have,” Emet-Selch started-- paused-- and continued, “answered your call. As I had said I would. For that, I apologize.”

There had been many, _many_ reasons for Emet-Selch not to respond, the most likely of which included _he’d found a new place to sleep and couldn’t be bothered to wake._ Cid had been extremely forthcoming on Emet-Selch’s reasons for departure. The work had to be delicate and time-consuming, or else he would’ve worked aboard the ship where Cid would be fascinated and inquisitive, while Nero fumed over how he flaunted his skills. A week wasn’t even very long, and they could handle the aggressors just fine. G’raha knew that well.

And yet. He’d apparently grown too used to a set routine, as his mind had gone to the worst once it broke. Panic stretched a moment to an eternity, and he’d ran through five dozen other, increasingly nonsensical possibilities.

In retrospect, the whole production had been an overreaction most embarrassing.

Unwilling to indulge those hardly-healed, blistering memories, G’raha reserved his emotions to himself and kept his voice level. “Apology accepted. Would you kindly remove your arm?”

When Hades did, rather than move away, G’raha leaned back against the wall. Allowing himself a small sigh, he looked his returned companion over.

“You look like you’ve crawled out of someone else’s spike pit.” Not physically, but in the other way that mattered. “Did Cahsi do something? -- _Say_ something? Surely, Ardbert was not the cause.”

“She has your best interests at heart,” he said, the corner of his mouth deciding that it would twitch upwards at this, at least, “and a more than generous streak of Eris’ temper in her soul. A few of her observations may have been accurate.”

G’raha pretended ignorance for why _that_ might be, giving him a slight smile of his own. “More than a few, maybe? At least half?”

Humming noncommittally, Hades ducked low and caught his mouth in a kiss.

Faintly amused, G’raha presumed the time for talking had reached its end. He rather wished Hades would learn to acknowledge his own stumbles without such heavy-handed lead-ups, but insofar as such conversations went, it contained more sincerity than he’d expected. In other words, he happily left their discussion behind, and focused instead on welcoming him back.

In the grand scheme of things, nearly a week was no time at all. But, in the minutiae of daily living, it might as well have been an age and a half: G’raha found himself pleasantly surprised when Hades snagged his bottom lip and worried at it; when he, in reflex, draped his arms over Hades’ shoulders and dug one hand into thick, dark hair; and, when Hades took his chin in hand and tilted it, such that his mouth parted to deepen the kiss. 

Though the thought made him feel like a gangly-limbed youth, it was true-- that he’d missed this, too.

While breathing became second priority, what scent he did pick up was of ozone and seasalt. How it covered Hades’ every ilm of skin irritated his nose. Irritation grew quickly to frustration, especially when Hades broke the kiss to mouth at his jawline and he was able to take a deep breath of the other’s smell. On impulse, he tugged Hades’ hair (-- _lightly!_ just enough to get him to move! Though by how Hades grumbled about it, one would think he’d ripped out a handful) to put them face-to-face, which allowed him to rub away the most offensive spots along the cheek and neck.

It was a natural instinct, and one he didn’t think too much about. Yet, Hades labored under his attention with bafflement. When he tried to pull away, complaining, “Are you _scenting_ me? Must you be so primeval?” G’raha had but finished covering half his face. As that made him smell quite ridiculous and the process was practically done anyway, he tightened his hold in his hair to keep him still, so that he might balance it out.

Hades made a few more protesting noises, at one point even flicking and pinching the tip of G’raha’s ear in his all-time favorite _irritate the miqo’te_ move. But none of it felt too earnest; or, whatever passed for his sense of guilt had kicked in; _or_ , much more likely, he was right about the instinct thing and knew G’raha wouldn’t quit worrying about it til he finished.

Once the stench of ozone and sea salt dimmed, whatever had annoyed him dissipated into bone-deep satisfaction. His tail curled up, his fingers curled happily into the fur lining Hades’ jacket. He wished then and there that they were not in the reading room, and made ready to propose they relocate. Which, _of course_ , was when Hades effectively silenced his efforts by recapturing his mouth. 

By how quickly he deepened it, the scenting hadn’t been as bothersome as he’d made it sound.

The problem was, it just made G’raha want to retire to the bedroom all the more. Hades’ hands returned to his neck, his thumbs rubbing maddeningly slow circles at soft skin under his jaw. While he dropped his hands to tighten upon Hades’ waist, he could not draw him close without breaking the kiss-- but oh, he wanted to.

Heat prickled under his skin, spreading from the warm pit that laid just below his stomach. His trousers felt too restrictive, too tight. Undoubtedly, they’d begun to tent. The wall behind him, crystal as it was, felt too cool and unyielding. He itched to pull Hades down; to twist him, to shove _him_ against the wall; to give him a welcome he might actually remember. A week had been, actually, a long time.

Though his thoughts ran to fantastical heights, loath too was he to change anything lest it end too fast.

Hades struggled with no such indecision. When he broke the kiss, he drew back to meet G’raha’s eyes and communicate, in a prolonged pause, that he was about to change up their pace.

While he had the breath to speak, G’raha wrangled his tongue into order and asked, “The bedroom?”

“Here works just fine,” Hades disagreed, and sank to his knees.

No amount of inexperience would allow G’raha to mistake his intention.

Still, he had to know, “Hades. Wait. Are you s--?”

“I _beg_ of you,” although it sounded more like an order, “lean back, and relax.”

Arguing that was definitely counterproductive, so G’raha didn’t.

Even kneeling, the top of Hades’ head reached the middle of his chest. He had to sit slower, keep himself bowed, his knees spread to either side of G’raha’s feet. He skimmed his hands beneath the edge of G’raha’s tunic, fingers alighting on overheated skin. When G’raha shifted back to lean against the wall, his hands splayed along its crystal as if to hold on, Hades tended to his belt and trouser fastenings, leaving the former on the ground by his side and the latter wide open. Though he was quick to pull down his trousers and underclothing just far enough to reach what he wanted, his attention lingered on G’raha’s hip-- the hollow of bone, nails scratched lightly-- then, his thigh-- and back, fingers digging in to angle him forward.

When Hades finally found his way to the head of his cock, it was leaking in interest. At the first press of lips to the tip, G’raha put his left hand to Hades’ hair, brushing it through thick strands once before gently tangling his fingers in.

As expected, Hades’ clever mouth did not limit itself to words alone. With tongue and lips, he worked over G’raha’s shaft, his eyes lidded and attention focused. He took G’raha halfway into his mouth to do something _very_ twisty and kindly with the underside of his crown, which stuttered the breath in his chest, prompting noises unchecked to spill from his own lips.

The warm pit under his stomach coalesced, and he fought the urge to thrust, just barely.

 _Probably_ , some hazy part of him thought, his mind close to shambles, _going off prior experiences, and preferences generally, and attitudes entirely, he would like it._

He _would,_ wouldn’t he.

It was around that private realization that Hades finally swallowed him all the way down, and G’raha added his other hand to the top of Hades’ head. Encouraging, Hades’ hands tightened on his ass, his throat constricting _tight_ \-- and G’raha gripped him back, pulling him even closer onto himself. He saw eyes widen slightly, felt the other’s throat spasm around taut flesh, a gasp aborted and gag reflex certainly struck-- so he let go, all at once concerned he had gone too far. He hadn’t, evidently, as a lidded gaze flitted up to catch his eyes, the other’s swollen lips managing a lazy, smirking smile even through his wheezing breath.

He could almost hear the words in Hades’ mind: _be a little brutal._

“For someone who complains about primeval instincts,” he accused, refusing to be embarrassed by how breathy his words had become.

Hades barked out a laugh, _I shan’t complain again, then_ , brushed errant spit from his chin with the back of his hand, licked his lips, and returned to his work.

G’raha leaned back, tightened his hold in Hades’ hair, and stopped holding back.

For once, he thought Hades to go too slow, swallowing him down in entirety before pulling all the way back. _Maddening._ In hindsight, he would realize that was perhaps on purpose; in the moment, he found himself setting the pace, moving Hades mostly as he wanted, which was to hold him close and thrust shallowly, _quickly,_ ‘til-- Hades gagged around him, kept his mouth open and tongue flat and eyes squeezed closed, everything about him pliant and accepting, teeth well hidden. Reflexive moisture had gathered on his thick lashes, his nostrils flared to catch what air he could between thrusts.

“I,” he gasped, his abdomen muscles jumping, meaning to warn before--

But, it was too late. Hades let go of his hip to wrap long fingers around the base of his tail and give it a _yank_ , which sent a shock up his spine and a bolt of heat straight to his dick. Eyes squeezing shut and legs shaking, he held Hades tight so that he might bury himself deep as he came. Hades let him, swallowing around him as he did.

After, Hades withdrew and turned his head to wheeze into his sleeve, leaving his sensitive and softening cock to chill in the open air. G’raha’s knees felt wobbly as rubber, his breath punched from him and thoughts thoroughly scrambled under the happy blanket of pleasure. Still, he did his best to pull himself together, because it was important to ask, “Hades, how are you feeling? That--”

“Like we should retire to a bed,” he cut him off, his voice roughened worse than ever before (which begged the question of if he’d used his magicks to ease any discomfort; G’raha, right then, suspected not), “as I’ve precious little time before I must return to the ship’s worksite.”

Precious little time if he wanted to sleep, which G’raha supposed he did. It was still a stark change from what he’d expected to hear -- the heat of the moment hadn’t faded much for him, though it, apparently, had for Hades. Regardless, he was in no position to do anything but accept without question, and so he did. Deciding to take the initiative on their relocation, he crouched (and only wobbled a _bit_ on the way down), took hold of Hades’ shoulder, and summoned them both a portal to the bedroom.

There, Hades took to the bed, perching almost idly upon its edge. His demeanor had significantly deflated, his mood apparently plummeting. He was not, as far as G’raha could tell, interested in any reciprocation. 

That was both new and worrisome. G’raha wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He busied himself with what he could do. He shucked his outerwear, then went to Hades’ side. There he hesitated only a moment before stooping to attend to Hades’ boots, which had a series of complicated ties near the top that gave G’raha some trouble. Hades watched him, eyes narrowing and expression appraising. G’raha expected snarky quips about his unfamiliarity, but he offered no such commentary. In fact, he remained perfectly quiet.

Finally the ties were undone and the boots removed. G’raha paid the same mind to his jacket and belts, his scarf and, finally, outer robe. It left him in a plain white gown, which seemed fine to sleep in.

Then and only then did he grab a book from his piles (for he certainly wouldn’t sleep, though he wasn’t opposed to resting), climbed into the bed, and settled onto his side to face Hades. By that point, his mind was carefully blank, refusing to tread into the dangerous waters of second-guessing when he really, truly had no idea what could be Hades’ problem. Something Cahsi had said, maybe; something with his Amaurotine recreations, possibly; their own conversation after retreating from the camp-- unlikely, but still an option. 

At length, Hades seemed to mentally shake himself from his stupor. His eyes focused on G’raha, and he roused himself to join him properly on the bed.

Because it seemed like the thing to do (though it hadn’t been, with Hades, who was loathe to display true vulnerability), G’raha opened his arms. That was apparently the right choice, as Hades flopped into them with a dramatic huff, a bit of life returning to his countenance.

“Be a dear and set the alarm for two hour’s time,” he instructed G’raha, trying for gravitas even as he stuck his face into G’raha’s chest and threw a heavy arm and leg over him.

“I would, except the alarm’s still broken.”

“ _What?_ How--?” Hades paused. “Right, I do remember that. You still haven’t fixed it? Is there only one screen capable of becoming an alarm clock built into this entire building?”

There wasn’t, but he hated the noises the other ones made. “I won’t be sleeping, so I can wake you. Yes, I remember how many bells two hours is, and yes, also, it is no trouble. Needing to keep an eye on a chronometer gives me an excuse to engage in a more leisurely reading.”

While Hades grumbled about the inherent uselessness of inflexible, specialized screens, G’raha fought with gravity in pulling a blanket out from under Hades’ very uncooperative big and heavy body. Somehow, he managed, and draped it over them both. He then settled down with one hand to keep his book open in the space behind Hades’ head, and the other brushing lightly through the other’s hair, occasionally scratching lightly at his scalp. It had felt nice when Hades did it to him, so he imagined it felt nice for him, too. Once thus settled, Hades hushed his complaints and trailed back into silence. 

It was, G’raha thought, far less oppressive than the one before.

And while he _really_ didn’t want to bring back whatever notion had put Hades in the bad mood, he did want to remind the other that he was-- willing to listen, if needed.

“Hades?” After receiving a questioning hum in acknowledgement, G’raha continued, “In case you’ve forgotten. I won’t know what you don’t share.”

That was rather blunt of him, wasn’t it? He should’ve thought it through. Hades was rubbing off on him.

Happily, the slight criticism did not make Hades stiffen or tense. Instead, after a moment’s consideration, he replied, voice low, “The physical is but one method of learning another. Soon, I would like to see what your soul is capable of.”

“... That sounds like it would take some practice,” G’raha commented, lightly.

“So it would.” He pressed his head up to the bottom of G’raha’s chin, nosing near ticklishly along his throat. “Done improperly, your soul would be subsumed by mine. If not in whole, then at least in part.”

“Ah.” A beat. “How likely is that to happen?”

“I’ve impeccable control over all matters concerning spirits.”

“So, you can’t say for sure.”

Hades blew out a puff of warm breath against his neck. “It has been a long time since I’ve attempted to merge with one of your sort. We would both be in need of practice.”

“Well,” G’raha couldn’t help a smile, dipping his hand lower to rub soothing circles at the overworked muscles at the top of Hades’ neck, “as long as we both understand what the other stands to lose.”

“Lots of practice,” Hades muttered, his eyes sliding shut. “Starting soon.”

“I look forward to the challenge,” G’raha agreed, his uncertainty from earlier fading just as fast as Hades fell asleep, “whenever and however it may arise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> communication!! is! key!
> 
> ......... one day that lesson might be learned. . . .
> 
> (find me at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter!)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a long and twisty one! please enjoy!

“What is the likelihood of this ship exploding once you turn that on?”

“We ran the numbers, and we discovered that the likelihood depends on…”

“...”

“...”

“... On?”

“Why don’t you tell her, Emet-Selch, since you designed it?”

“If a little mishap like an implosion worries you, then you’d best wait outside.”

“That’s singularly unhelpful, thanks.”

Nero chimed in with, “And also from a dozen malms away.”

Emet-Selch nodded. “Roughly speaking, yes.” 

“A blast wall wouldn’t hurt either.”

“When you’re already bothering to be a dozen malms away, you might as well have a blast wall, too. But, do take care: it will need a roof.”

“-- _Thank you_ , Nero and Emet-Selch! Glad to know that I really can’t take either of you anywhere. Their ridiculous doomsaying aside, it's really a very small chance, Alisaie. At least, insofar as any of us can tell.” Cid rubbed at the back of his neck, then gathered his brave face and gave the gathered adventurers a big thumbs up. On a typical first run, he could have assured them all that there was no way the prototype reactor would even turn on. With Emet-Selch at the design helm, and he and Nero pulling together for a highly successful all-nighter, he was fairly confident about their chances of _something_ happening. The question was whether it would be them sailing their shiny new baby into the great blue rather than blown into a thousand little bits across the Burn. “Now that you’ve been fully informed, if you or anyone else would rather get off now, none of us would hold it against you.”

“Plus, lighter is generally better in the matters of air travel,” Nero added in an aside from his spot by the central orb that, luckily, went mostly unheard.

“Are you kidding?” Cahsi laughed. “I just wish this room had windows.”

“So that we could see the ground coming?” Alisaie asked.

“And the looks on everyone’s faces when we find out this giant discus flies upside down.”

“I still hope you’re right about that, just so long as it’s a feature and not a bug.”

“Why not, right? This ship might as well be as strange as possible.”

While Nero finished triple-checking the cords running from reactor to a makeshift adapter box attached to the cable that they guessed connected to the central orb, Cid paid them all a last glance-and-check. Standing not too far back, Alisaie broke off attempting to one-up Cahsi’s theories to give him a smile and eyebrow-raise, clearly challenging him to get on with it. Cahsi, to her side, gave him a solemn thumbs-up, then a smile of her own. A few rows back, Alphinaud, G’raha and Urianger crowded around Emet-Selch’s desk, from which Emet-Selch hypothesized he would be able to troubleshoot the ship’s flight commands once it booted up. The group made an amusing sight: Emet-Selch had to perch on the edge of his chair to reach the desk, while only Urianger was tall enough to get a look at the screen without going to his tiptoes (which G’raha and Alphinaud both independently and silently attempted whenever they thought no one else would notice).

Alisaie was there to help with any aggressors they flew themselves into. She said she was no Estinien, but she was light on her feet, and quite good with big drops. Aside from also being good in a fight, Cahsi was their back-up authenticator in case something happened to lock Emet-Selch out, or if more than one authorization was needed to coordinate proper flight. The other three had been interested in the process behind the activation for one reason or another, as well as lend their weapons if need be. Cid heard them take turns asking actual and astute questions about what Emet-Selch was doing, which he was remarkably patient and thorough in answering.

Outside of the ship stood Jessie, Biggs and Wedge with monitors. As those three were Ironworks’ most trusted, they would oversee the take-off and thereafter organize the camp’s clean-up. Considering that Cid had all documentation on the ship with him in a nice stack on a desk in the command room and just how close their aggressors were, that likely meant razing at least a portion of the tents to the ground. Cid didn’t like thinking about how much they were really on the run in this one. Gaius had told Jessie that he planned to stick around for as long as the Garleans kept sending scavengers, which, if they played their cards right, should be enough time for him to capture _one_ airship intact. Ardbert, Thancred and Ryne had already gone to Revenant’s Toll to coordinate with the other Scions in ensuring their safe landing space. It was a little surreal and nostalgic to be going back _there_ as a place of safety. In all honesty, Cid was pretty stoked to rewrite those old memories with the new.

“All is green on my end,” Emet-selch said, raising his voice to carry over Alisaie and Cahsi’s friendly and increasingly absurd theories about what nonsense the ship could get into.

“Right. That’s as secure as it’s gonna get.” Cid glanced back down to Nero, who wiped the dust from his hands off on his trousers as he slid the panel mostly closed and stood up. “If everyone’s finished contemplating their death warrants like Garlond asked you to--”

Fighting back a sight, Cid shook his head. “That’s not what I said.”

“-- then we should be good to go.”

“Should we sit somewhere, or…?” Cahsi asked, looking around.

Alisaie eyed the seats. “Where’s the armrests? Those look so smooth, we’d slide right off.”

“Just, er,” Cid motioned awkwardly for them to scoot back from the orb, though honestly he hadn’t thought about that little detail, “stand together somewhere else, if you would. Nero and I will manage fine down here.” 

While extra hands were usually useful, Emet-Selch had spent a good two-minute lecture to impress on him just how _delicate_ the reactor was if its casing was in any way breached. So if anything was blowing up, it’d be that. He’d like Cahsi and Alsiaie to have a shred of a chance of missing the worst of the blowback. 

Accepting that without complaint, they trudged to Emet-Selch’s desk. 

Once they were there and no one was peering around on any unsteady tiptoes, Cid caught Emet-Selch’s eye. _Now_ came the fun part, he thought, though this ship was definitely a different style than his usual. Adrenaline and enthusiasm rising in tandem, pushing out the jittery excitement he had from no sleep and a whole pot of coffee, Cid gave him a grin and a thumbs up.

The screens really made the activation process anticlimactic. Whereas an airship took a lever pull and key twist before its engine roared to life, Emet-Selch merely nodded, tapped something on his screen, and looked up expectantly at the orb.

To be fair, Cid and Nero turned to give the orb the same expectant looks. In fact, everyone did. 

For three ticks of a chronometer, nothing happened. Cid heard their reactor whirr to life, but it gave little indication it was working beyond a low, continuous hum and a thin, eddying stream of water vapor from its bottom vent.

Cid shot Nero a look. “Did you hook the yellow wire into the panel this time?”

Nero crossed his arms. “ _Yes_ , I did. The reactor’s obviously not the problem. It must be-- the-- … huh. Would you look at that.”

The ship reminded Cid about how it would do its job in its own time and at its own pace, and he was very much along for the ride on this one, as the main show began to levitate and rotate over its massive, smooth pocket. 

Everything about the ship was _quiet._ Efficient. The central sphere fared no differently: aside from the rising _whoosh_ of air as it turned, it made no noise. As Cid watched, pale lines appeared on its surface, mapping glowing zig-zags between seemingly random dots. The dots pulsed slowly while the lines in between held steady even as the sphere underneath churned at a good speed. Cid watched it with a keen eye, waiting for something to buckle or break. Nothing did. Rather, once it hit its unknown velocity, it kept it without trouble.

Whistling lowly, Nero propped one hand on a hip and said, admiringly, “Imagine what this beau must be able to do with that much power. Even if she couldn’t _fly_ , she’d fetch a hell of a price on the market.”

“‘Til we know what’s going on underneath the hood, she’s not seeing the inside of a single stall.”

Nero cracked a smarmy grin in his direction. “Relax, Garlond. Allergic as you are to easy and good money, I figured as much.”

Not fighting his own smile, he gave Nero a happy pat on the shoulder. “Good. Just so long as you remember. So,” he raised his voice, looking over his shoulder up to Emet-Selch, whose gaze was fixated on his screen despite _everyone else_ taking in the splendidly _working_ orb, “when do you think we can get her off the ground--”

“We’re already moving.”

Cid’s smile froze on his face. “-- What’s that?”

Nero twisted around to stare at their would-be pilot.

The others did as well. Alisaie and Cahsi hopped up on nearby chairs to get a better look at the screen, while G’raha and Alphinaud forgot their pride and crowded around the desk on their toes. Urianger’s eyebrows had risen to his hairline, though Cid guessed he wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing. Then again, he probably understood as much as they did. While a few of them had a good grasp of the more basic, oft-repeated phrases, the operating language continued to be positively inscrutable. Only by the grace of its creator’s love for self-evident symbols did they really get anywhere.

Though he looked remarkably composed, Emet-Selch was furiously tapping away at the screen in a manner Cid absolutely recognized. It was the frenzied concentration inspired by a machina doing the exact opposite of what it was supposed to do, while its operator was very aware that if it kept going, it would run itself into other, more expensive things, and he would definitely be fired.

Except in this case, the firing was them moving to who-knew-where, at who-knew-what-speed, in a ship that operated under who-knew-what-logic!

“ _This_ is part of why I wanted windows,” Cahsi said.

“At least if we were headed into the ground, we’d have already reached it, right?” Alisaie said. “And the Burn’s mostly sand, so whatever happens, our landing could be soft--”

“Dost this indicate we have departed from the Burn?” Urianger asked, pointing at something that Cid really should get his ass over to see, too. 

Figuring the reactor was doing more than fine, he did that. If he were in better shape, he’d have vaulted the desks, but as it was, he had to stick with half-running up the aisle.

“No, that number’s been rising since the orb started turning.” Alphinaud’s voice rose with keen shock. “Is that how far we’ve traveled from the _ground?_ ”

Emet-Selch stopped typing then, his hands hovering over the screen as his _I am doing fine_ facade cracked with mild but genuine surprise. 

He said, “Oh, dear. It does look that way, doesn’t it.” 

“It is. It definitely is.” G’raha tore his gaze from the screen to look toward the center sphere. Just as Cid arrived to see what was happening, G’raha swapped places with him by taking off for the orb. “I bet it’s following-- what were the signal’s coordinates? The ones the ship was transmitting into the Rift?”

“There’s no coordinates for the Rift,” Nero argued, nonetheless stepping back to allow him close to the orb. “And all those lines look like nonsense.”

G’raha shook his head. “No, they look like--”

“-- Constellations.” Urianger finished, following after G’raha toward the orb. “A star map. From the perspective of our current location?”

“Considering they remain still even as we move, it appears more likely to be from a fixed location. None I recognize, however; what of you?”

“I cannot say at first glance, but thee may have the right of it.”

Cid looked at Emet-Selch. It took until the end of his question for him to drag his gaze from the screen and look back. “You had said this ship wasn’t designed to land Starside, and it was probably locked in emergency protocols when it crashed. Since I doubt we deactivated those, where’s a ship like that go once it has the juice to leave?”

“If I ignore all I know of the Rift…” Emet-Selch allowed, slowly, his eyes shifting from Cid’s to the orb.

“Then the obvious answer is, home.” Alphinaud answered, without pause. “It’s returning home.”

That sunk in. Cahsi tried her linkpearl to Ardbert, while Cid at last remembered to do the same with his and its connection to Jessie. By how Cahsi winced, she received the same burst of static that he did. Taking a glance at the increasingly large number on Emet-Selch’s screen, he guessed they had hurtled far out of range in, oh, no time at all.

A temporary and tense quiet settled over them.

“At least the ride’s… very smooth,” G’raha said.

“Too smooth.” Cahsi shivered. “It’s weird to think about.”

Urianger tried to spin that toward the positive. “We will know immediately if something goes wrong.”

“Because we’d splatter on the walls at the slightest bump, considering how fast I assume we’re going,” Nero said, “since that’s how physics works. Or are we ignoring physics now?”

“Hopefully, we are. You could say we’ve been ignoring a few fundamental laws for a while now, since everything gets strange when magic becomes a factor. If physics suddenly kicked in to screw us over…” Cid paused. “Actually, that’d be about par for the course.”

Alisaie fell back, hard, into her chair. “Right. I hope there’s people on the other end of this journey, and that they’re nice.” She sighed. “And also don’t mind uninvited guests.”

“ _I_ hope they don’t believe us to be the cause of the missing crew,” Nero muttered.

In the ship’s overall silence, his words carried themselves to each of them. The notion sat heavy in their minds, though each for a different reason than the last.

**. . .**

When the news came that the ship had safely - and _so swiftly!_ \- launched, Jessie told them to expect the craft to land in their neck of the woods within a week’s time, at most.

When they couldn’t contact their free-flying friends through linkpearls, they imagined it to be due to some mechanical interference that they were unaware of. Silence over the communicators wasn’t a fantastic situation, but it was within the expected parameters of the situation. 

Anyway, they had their own work to do. In the month previous, Y’shtola had temporarily set aside the Hydaelyn project to look into the same research that Cahsi and G’raha had been working on. They’d affectionately labeled it the _Sneaky Snake_ project, which grossly undersold the aetheric mastery necessary to achieve its intended goal. Immediately prior to the ship’s take off, they’d finished analyzing the Tower’s containment logs regarding the organism for clues. The logs had treated the creature as any other. Indeed, there were three other similar creatures contained on its floor; but, none of them had been Created by Eris. Research thus stalled, they planned to take a trip to where G’raha had found it in the Labyrinth to see if there were any more clues there. 

Y’shtola recruited a curious Krile into taking the journey with her to the Labyrinth. Krile, having a keen but blind eye for aetherial signatures herself, noted that the area the creature had been found in was not suited for a living creature, as it was saturated in Voidsent essence. While it had a body capable of a natural life and had been living that life when G’raha found it, it was more like a well-animated prop than an actual organism. So, they knew Eris had Created it but that someone else had placed it, that it may have had some contact with the Thirteenth Shard (or contact with Xande’s pact with the Voidsent), and-- possibly-- it had _lived_ only once G’raha found it. To draw attention, most likely. But still, they couldn’t find out for _what._

Krile thought they should reanimate it themselves and let it wander about, see if it led them somewhere useful. Y’shtola was inclined to give that a go, but wanted to wait until G’raha returned in case it slithered somewhere they couldn’t follow without his aid. Though the Tower didn’t appear locked, it felt too strange to venture in when G’raha wasn’t in attendance.

When a week passed and still they received neither word nor sight of the strange craft, they began to worry.

To add to that worry, Jessie and the Ironworks group at large had heard nothing from Cid. According to Jessie, he had an emergency communicator with a range that would have allowed him to contact his group from as far as the moon. It hadn’t been activated, even after Jessie had sent a signal that requested an immediate response. They themselves were en route to Revenant’s Toll. As their need to dodge Garlean attention restricted them to much less glamorous travel vessels, they were not due to arrive for a week yet.

Y’shtola, curious despite herself, attempted to call for Emet-Selch’s attention. They received no reply. 

When that proved a dead end, Ardbert then called for Feo Ul. Feo Ul took some time to answer him, but when they did, they worked themselves into a frenzy to no avail: Cahsi was not to be found on either Source or First or, really, anywhere the King could sense.

That boded ill.

Actually, it boded absolutely terribly.

Theoretically, they had no choice but to sit on their hands and wait. They didn’t understand spacecraft, let alone space-travel. They lacked G’raha’s mastery of Allagan secrets, or Urianger’s keen knowledge of the stars and winds of fate. 

For Thancred, Y’shtola, and Krile-- for Ardbert, too, and Ryne-- for _all of them,_ sitting around and waiting was of course no option at all.

Figuring out where the ship had disappeared to was the first step. Ardbert recalled the Rift being mentioned during the reactivation process. As they usually did, they took that scrap of a lead, knocked their heads together over it, and tried to figure out a way forward. Between them all, they knew precious little of the Rift.

“It is a method to reach other Shards, isn’t it?” Krile asked.

“So we’ve gathered by experience, rather than precise experiment or theory,” Y’shtola answered.

“As long as the experiment is replicable, it would suffice.”

“We’re lacking our usual sorcerers for such manipulations.”

“-- Are we?” Thancred broke in. “We know full well the way to G’raha’s study room. Surely there would be relevant texts somewhere amid his mountain of notes.”

“A peek wouldn’t hurt anybody,” Ardbert agreed. “We can all sort through the papers, at least.”

Ryne seemed unsure, but did not argue.

Krile said, “What about that serpent? Perhaps it knows a way to wiggle back to the Thirteenth.”

“They sealed the portal between Tower and Void a while back.”

“We’ve no confirmation that the portal was the one it used, if it used one at all. It seems crafty enough -- and strange enough -- to have its own methods of travel, once we return it to its original state of mind rather than its pre-constructed instincts as a miniature monster.” 

“I trust this has nothing to do with the relative ease behind removing its stasis and subsequently restoring it to its original state,” Y’shtola teased lightly, giving Krile a small smile, “versus the challenge posed by finding our own way to track an unknown craft through the stars.”

“It seems a logical place to start considering your confidence that ancient Amaurotines had a hand in making both creature and craft. That said, a buoying success certainly wouldn’t hurt our currently sinking morale.”

“That it wouldn’t.” Thancred shook his head. “Alright. Let’s get the thing, and then… -- Wait. Pray tell, how are we to return it to its original state, and why would you deem it easy? To my knowledge, none here have had lessons in Creation magic.”

“As it relates to this particular Creation, Krile and I have a fine idea of what will be required. While it’s true that what we propose would normally fall beyond our ken, we fortunately have a unique key at our disposal.” Y’shtola turned her smile to Ardbert. Facing it, he took a slight step back. As far as he could tell, it was far more calculating than the one she’d aimed at Krile. “However removed from the original it may have become, a piece of Eris’ aetherial signature should retain the echoes of what it once was.”

“I’ve never been too adept with magic,” he quickly warned. “Attempting usually just gave me a stomachache.”

“Worry not. Leave the spellcasting to us; you need only act the part of the conduit.”

“That sounds like a risk for a bigger stomachache...”

“You’d best not eat anything before, to be sure. Would you still be willing to give it a try?”

“For them? Absolutely.”

**. . .**

Contrary to popular belief, Emet-Selch was not omniscient.

It was a fair mistake to make. According to knowledgeable sources, Emet-Selch had fallen prey to the mistake once or twice himself. It was more the universe’s fault for being so damned cyclical, as patterns of all sorts were exceedingly easy to recognize and adjust for. However, _occasionally_ , the world threw him a bigger curveball than an inspired Sundered that managed to drag herself and her auracite-carrying lackeys to the bottom of an ocean while overloaded with blistering Light. For instance, that incident resulted not in an anticlimactic battle wherein he watched shredded souls scurry back to their twisted, polluted Lifestream, but all of them, Sundered included, returning to a thriving Amaurot at the height of her glory. 

Another fine example of a curveball: firing up a very fine ship, which then tore across the stars toward… a natural rift to the Rift, perhaps. Or a long-forgotten mechanical portal. Or a far-away sun, whereupon their flesh-bound forms would be vaporized near instantly. Actually, it would be amazing if the ship’s flight path _didn’t_ include a fatal collision, considering their collective inability to recognize system warnings or pilot it, as well as the likelihood that its databases were outdated and navigation systems horrifically compromised. Hadn’t an incredible, mystical navigation device fallen into Ixali hands? Were they sure it hadn’t belonged to this very ship?

Garlond wasn’t too pleased when he offered up that last musing, but he couldn’t argue that it had a far-from-zero probability of being true.

Emet-Selch consoled him with, “At the rate we’re traveling, it’s only a matter of time before we learn what consequences we will need to contend with.”

“I’d like to be a little more proactive,” he returned. “We could disconnect the power source and take a pause to regain our bearings.”

Or, because the little Elezen had likely guessed correctly that they were en route to a hypothetical maintenance bay, they would disrupt the ship’s emergency protocols and destroy their chance at finding its original creators. 

Garlond didn’t bring that up, so neither did Emet-Selch.

Instead, he said, “Or we would become stranded in space, which tends toward hostile for beings that require air. Did you know that with enough time in open space, your blood would begin to boil in your--”

Garlond held up a hand to stop him. “Yes, I know the theories about liquids in perfect vacuums. You don’t need to go into disgusting detail about it.”

“We’d drop in temperature fast enough that the boiling wouldn’t be our main cause of death, anyway,” Scaeva said, which was accurate.

Hypothetically, were they to cut the power and didn’t spin out into a crash-landing, he could have portaled them to safety. At the rate the ship traveled, he was unable to orientate himself to their location at any given moment. If it stopped, that wouldn’t have been a problem. But, in motion and after it had repaired itself, its strange insulation against aetherial manipulation had grown into outright interference. So, if they portaled out, they would need to leave the ship behind. 

In addition, considering the distance they would need to travel and the fragility of mortal forms, he wouldn’t have promised that they would arrive wholly intact. 

Of course, whatever injuries they suffered would be mendable with liberal application of white magics. But the ship would still be left behind.

While Emet-Selch imagined he could find his way back to it eventually, it altogether added quite a few extra steps. Especially since they were already so well underway to wherever the ship wished to take them.

By the sharp-eyed look Cahsi and Urianger gave him, they knew where his concerns chiefly laid. G’raha, too, made a few sly comments to Garlond about prioritizing lives over metal, which Garlond naturally agreed with. They held their peace, however, as they currently fared well for a group hurtling through space to a destination unknown. Much to Emet-Selch’s own surprise, the desire to express some measure of gratitude squirmed on the tip of his tongue.

As the ship held steady its course, the makeshift crew’s shock-fueled adrenaline faded. In its wake came curiosity, which could not be easily satisfied with their limited grasp of the computer’s or its creator’s language. While Emet-Selch kept himself to his desk, vigilant as a hawk over what he had determined to be the primary navigation display, the others wandered beyond the command room and through the halls and empty rooms in search of either answers or entertainment. Unfortunately, they had no idea how to operate the keypads at the doors, and hesitated to push anything too far lest it break. Thus, they soon ended up back in the command room, talking and theorizing quietly amongst themselves.

... For about a half-bell, as then they fully grew used to their situation and subsequently became bored. Urianger divined fortunes and tarot in response to hyper specific, increasingly absurd questions from Alphinaud, while Alisaie instructed Cahsi and G’raha in the art of a perfect backflip. The latter trio took their training to new heights as they challenged one another to make it atop a desk or chair or, in one moment of blinding ennui, Garlond’s shoulders.

Garlond and Scaeva attempted to busy themselves with the ship, but exhaustion from the launch’s frenzy clearly began to drag them down and they began to make simple, silly mistakes. Emet-Selch finally told them to pick a place and sit down, as they were far more useful when idle and with their clumsy, sticky fingers _out_ of the delicate machinery.

That sparked a debate about his wakefulness versus their need to sleep, which Emet-Selch handily won. It was somewhat helpful that the others agreed with him and were willing to test out the raw materials in the storage unit for optimal bedding.

“Hast the storage sustenance to sate our hunger and thirst?” Urianger asked as they headed for the command room’s exit.

Alphinaud shook his head. “Not unless someone wants to confess that they can digest dirt or gems.” 

Cahsi threw Emet-Selch an inquiring look. He paid it no mind, keeping his eyes on instead on the monitor. Its tracking numbers were doing quite the funniest thing, as they began to run inverse to their original increasing rate.

When he dallied too long in replying, Urianger, brave shard he was, asked aloud,“Emet-Selch, how fares Creation magic in producing basic essentials?”

“-- Alternatively, can those sleeping pods be made operational?”

“You want to use a sleeping pod?” Alisaie asked her brother. “They look about as comfortable as a brick slab.”

“As I have been informed, the machina’s function is to put its subject asleep instantly. In light of that, I shan’t worry too much over the neck-ache I might awaken to… Besides, there’s wool-like materials in the storage. With a few cuts of that added in, the pod will be more like a cloud.”

“That’s not too bad an idea, actually.”

Minds so set on making half-way decent use of their time, they filed out of the room’s exit. 

Scaeva alone remained behind. He went to Emet-Selch’s side, took a good look at the monitor, and frowned.

“If that means what I think it means…” he began.

He didn’t need to finish. Despite their squabbling, Scaeva wasn’t as blind as his prickly temper made him seem to be.

They didn’t discuss their plan of action. It was fairly straight-forward.

When the others returned, Cahsi and G’raha bearing armfuls of wool-like fibers to show off to the whole group, Emet-Selch said, “You’d best put that back where you found it. We’re due to arrive at our destination ere long.”

“You couldn’t have said that before we trooped off to fetch this?” G’raha retorted-- immediately followed by a double-take and, “You say that we’re soon to arrive? Surely you jest?”

“Remarkably, he isn’t,” Scaeva said. He gestured at the monitor. “See the numbers for yourself.”

Boredom and bedding forgotten, they crowded to Emet-Selch’s desk and peered at the monitor. Scaeva helpfully explained what numbers meant what, while Alphinaud and Garlond fielded questions relating to the various tangents the gaggle of geniuses managed to come up with. Emet-Selch let the noise filter through one ear and out the other, his eyes keen on the monitor.

The tracker indicating how far they had to go before their destination dropped to double- and then single-digits. As it did, the orb in the middle of the command room began to slow its turn. 

At the corner of his awareness, Hydaelyn’s cloying presence receded. Empty and aimless as the Rift was, a primal had no sway.

When the tracker hit zero, the orb stilled. Again resting at peace in its cratered spot, the star map hovering in bright lines over its surface pulsed a silent beat, as though asking them where they would like to go next. Unlike its unbelievably smooth launch, the ship suffered the smallest bump and rumble as it found its mark. Alphinaud tottered sideways as it did, righting himself with a hand on Alisaie’s shoulder, while the rest of them managed to brace themselves somewhat in time.

Once the ship stilled, they all glanced around the room as though it would magically change to clue them into where and what they’d gotten themselves into.

“... Right! Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to wherever in the seven hells we’ve ended up. Here’s hoping the door still works, eh?” Garlond clapped his hands together, centering their attention on him. It seemed he wished to banish any whispers of trepidation from the room before they could collect. “Emet-Selch, anything interesting on your end before we go rushing in?”

Emet-Selch spared it a glance. He tapped at what had previously worked as a ‘back’ button, but it refused to move. Presumably with the destination achieved, it had fulfilled its function and so frozen itself. 

He said, “Nothing at all.”

“I’ll take that as a good sign. So, Cahsi and Alisaie, do you two want to run point?”

“G’raha and me would be best, actually,” Cahsi said. 

“I like starting at range,” Alisaie confirmed, “as long as the aether around here behaves.”

The barely-notable ventilation hummed louder for a moment, then dimmed into silence.

Half of them noticed that, their eyes rising to the ceiling. The other half continued chatting, heading leisurely but with due anticipation toward the room’s exit.

“... Emet-Selch, will you be joining us poor, small folk in defense of our-- Emet-Selch?” Cahsi realized half-way to said exit that a number of them (to include G’raha, Urianger and Scaeva) had stopped. She halted, turning to blink at them all. “What’s wrong?”

The screen wasn’t supposed to be frozen. He’d been locked out once they’d docked. What had locked him out was elated to see the ship back, but extremely displeased with what it contained. 

Simple concepts, yet collecting and putting the _feelings_ into plain, verbal words felt like an extraordinary task. 

He didn’t manage to wrangle his mouth into working order before the soft, grey lights embedded in the walls and ceiling flickered twice, then blackened. His screen followed suit a moment later. The central orb’s star map faded last, leaving false imprints of lines and dots in the dark.

A confused shuffling and shouting resulted. Just as G’raha and Cahsi summoned mage lights, a pale red replaced the soft grey of the ship’s lights. Emet-Selch’s screen remained black, and unresponsive to the touch.

“That’s…” Garlond stared at the pale red line in the ceiling, a shred of genuine worry crossing his face. “I don’t think there’s any way to take that as a good sign.”

Urianger kept calm, but there was no hiding his latent urgency. “'Tis plainly an omen that we must depart posthaste.” 

“I’d agree with that assessment,” Scaeva said, and made for the door.

Previously, once provided power, it had slid open upon their mere presence at its front. Predictably, it no longer was so accommodating. 

Without hesitation, G’raha took the staff from his back and attempted to wedge its end into the door’s sliding mechanism. Smooth as the metal was when joined, his staff skittered and slipped from its siding. When G’raha gave up on the staff and admitted that something more _explosive_ would possibly do the trick (which he was happy to supply), Garlond proclaimed he had a crowbar stashed somewhere in the boxes near the orb, and went to fetch it.

The red cast an eerie halo upon their heads. Emet-Selch let himself down from his chair and went to join them. 

By the time Garlond returned with the crowbar-- which was no time at all-- the air around them had thickened into a stale, hot soup. The mortals’ breath came heavier and quicker, such that all of them recognized the signs to be what they were: a lack of oxygen, ever- and rapidly-growing.

“Give that,” Cahsi directed, between near-gasps of air, “two pulls, then we’re using fire.”

“It’ll eat up more oxygen,” G’raha argued then, less winded but covered in perspiration. A body was a body, and it wanted air even if it didn’t technically need it.

Annoyance prickled at the back of Emet-Selch’s neck. 

Someone was acting with the intent to kill the mortals. He could feel the fear under their anger; it was a choking mix that screamed so loud he privately marveled at how deaf the shards had to be to not hear it. Though he attempted to concentrate on _who_ the cause was, to see their soul -- or souls -- beyond the ship’s meaningless metal, the aetherial interference obscured his senses beyond the blunt force wash of their disdain and despair.

Fine. They wanted to hide behind their walls? 

He would take the confrontation to them.

“Must everything with you lot become such an ordeal? Can a journey not be complete without an attempted murder?” He bemoaned, neither winded nor sweating (for a body was a body, but his body was a finely tuned gift which responded quite well to his wishes, and right then, he wished not to be bothered by a pesky thing like breathing). “Gather close; I am fairly certain I know the exact measure of magic required to avert your passing, and for efficiency’s sake, I shan’t use a drop more.”

“Heartening as ever, Emet-Selch,” Alisaie returned, even as she and the others drew close without true complaint, bumping elbows and doing their best to put on their brave, adventure-ready faces. They were very practiced at that. “How fortunate we are to have your enthusiasm on our side.”

They _were_ , actually, but they probably knew that. 

He surprised himself at having to concentrate on his spell before casting it. Envisioning and anchoring a bubble of steady, clean air around them was not too complicated, but his thoughts wished to stray, pulled as they were by the strength of the outside force’s emotions. Creation magic, temperamental as it could be, allowed no lapse in control, lest he bury them in the fire of someone else’s fear.

A few of them gasped and gulped when he finished weaving his shelter around them. Hm. Maybe he had waited a bit too long.

No matter. They had air now.

“What next, what next… Ah, yes. You had been discussing the difficulty of moving forward without a clear path. Let me lend aid with that, too,” he said aloud, and privately relished the exasperated look his comment garnered from the majority of the party, Garlond, G’raha and Cahsi most of all. Pretending not to see, he raised a hand to wave the door open. The door, happy to do as it had been designed to, loosened its deadbolts and slid into the wall and out of their way.

Once it had, he gave them a cat-with-the-canary smile and, with an exaggerated bow, motioned them to go first. 

The smaller Elezen shared a _look_ with one another, but did so. Urianger followed suit with an eyebrow raise. 

G’raha studiously ignored his theatrics, and moved to take point. The blue of his shield and sword jumped easily to his hands. In a distant corner of his mind, Emet-Selch congratulated them both on their excellent spellwork with the Tower’s modifications; without them, G’raha would have likely been made mindless by its demanding pull and been left prone on the ship’s floor. He made a mental note to say as much once they’d found their foothold in this new place.

Rather than do the same, Garlond took a moment to accuse, “You’re acting awfully strange,” and narrowed his eyes at him.

“I’m acting on your behalf,” Emet-Selch rebuffed, waving his scrutiny away. “Yet, my ears must deceive me, as that doesn’t sound like gratitude.”

“Don’t question him when he’s in this kind of _gracious_ mood,” Cahsi sighed, snagging Garlond’s arm and pulling him forward. He stumbled slightly, protesting vaguely, but ultimately accepted that, and went.

As Emet-Selch really had cast his bubble of safety to be exactly what was needed and not a drop more, he followed closely behind them. He’d anchored the sphere to Urianger, who -- as he’d expected -- stuck to the middle of the group once Cahsi and G’raha, as discussed, took the lead.

The ship groaned and creaked around them, the metal pipes and vents within the walls popping and settling over and over. Halfway to the ship’s exit, the hallway lost the red glow. Plunged into darkness save for the glow of G’raha’s aetherpool weaponry, they again halted to re-orientate themselves.

“I think it’s safe to say the locals are alive,” Scaeva growled, “and well pissed at us for wrecking their ship.”

“I really wish you weren’t likely right,” Garlond replied. “Doubt we’ll have any method of mutual communication either, which means once we open that door, we’ll probably need to duck.”

“Even though we’ve technically returned their ship, they appear to think of us as barnacles to be scraped off first and foremost,” G’raha murmured.

“Anyone else’s ears popping?” Alisaie asked, working her jaw and squeezing her eyes closed to rid herself of it.

“In that, you aren’t alone,” Alphinaud said, and Urianger agreed.

If that was the extent of their commentary on the shift in cabin pressure, then Emet-Selch deserved more than a simple congratulations. It had dropped sharp and far enough to do as he’d warned a vacuum could and boil their blood in their veins. He’d barely caught the shift (truthfully, if he hadn’t monitored his own body as closely as he did, he wouldn’t have noticed it), and had worked fast to adjust their shelter accordingly to preserve an environment the mortals wouldn’t keel over in.

Outside the vessel, anger bled into alarm. A storm of emotions, each feeding into the other and stoking itself into blaring panic.

His own prickling annoyance spiked into resentment. Sneering at the invisible irritant, he lengthened his gait and passed the mortals.

Striding for the door, he heard a few call his title as they hurried to keep pace with him. Their concern flickered dim as candles against the beacon of fright outside the vessel, which grew and grew as he neared the exit. _Good!_ he thought, for if such mindless horror did the unknown beings bear that they would lash out and destroy without thought, then they deserved to dread every step he took toward them. 

(Whatever stood beyond the doors were not the Amaurotines he had been hoping for.

That a portion of his people had survived to create the ship was a hope he had buried deep. As with most things kept locked inside, when it died, it rotted and festered and stank up the entire establishment.)

When he reached the exit, he encouraged it to _open_ , as it had been designed to do.

It did, happy to get out of his way.

Light flooded in. The same soft greys as the ship’s, except it came from nowhere and everywhere, radiating from the walls and ceiling of the plain, boxy, white room beyond. An intangible barrier separated the room from the ship, as the former contained a fine balance of air and habitable pressure, but neither rushed to fill the other.

Two tall robed figures stood before him, bearing familiar red masks and familiar-but-not unsundered souls. 

Without the barrier between them, the colors and call of the individual souls were so obvious, _he_ felt the fool. Over the eons, his people’s faces hadn’t changed: smooth, ashy skin, eyes aglow with their potential power. Unrestrained, unshielded emotions radiated from their hearts and minds, filling the room and washing over him in a drowning tidal wave of _fear, surprise, distrust! concern? who, who, who--?_

Without a second thought, his sigil flared to life over his vessel’s face. _Me! Hades! Who else?_

Even after all the time that must have passed and though he did not know them by anything like a name, they recognized him immediately.

“-- One who bears the sigil of Emet-Selch?” the one marked Nabriales said aloud, their soul radiating wonderment over previous alarm.

“Surely there is another who holds that title by now,” he said, voice softened by faint curiosity and, behind it, his own delayed shock. There were-- if he spread his awareness, there was a dozen, _no_ , two dozen unsundered souls aboard whatever vessel they had entered. Two dozen at least. Perhaps these walls also interfered with his sight. There was no telling until he was informed, by his-- these-- _survivors._

Two dozen, at least.

 _At least._

“... None hold the seat of the Thirteenth,” was one’s answer. “Not since the last had fallen-- you know the story.”

“He doesn’t,” the other, marked Emmerololth, said, perhaps sensing it within his weathered soul. “Never has he known us face-to-face.”

Strange though it was to face souls entirely different from those he long knew to bear those titles, unlike in Amaurot, they did not flinch or shy from the touch of his soul. They knew the bite of a thousand, thousand lifetimes spent away from their home. Though he didn’t know why they had been forced to flee into the Rift (but oh, how he could barely sense that to be where they were! the advancements they’d made with their technology were breathtaking), he was sure he would soon learn. Not from grasping at cryptic straws left by Eris, but directly from their own perspectives.

“Evidently,” with the pleased lilt of hope realized and revitalized, a weight lifted from his shoulders at this incredible meeting, “I’ve been out of the loop. Why don’t we exchange tales somewhere more hospitable to a decent discussion?”

“Yes.” Excitement rose, tremulous and wary. Though they were bafflingly open with their emotions, he could not complain. Difficult and muffled as the shards were to read, his Paragon brothers and brief respite in Amaurot an exception, he had been left without half of his senses for so long. “Yes, that sounds very agreeable. This is an occurrence that would necessitate a great gathering. Truthfully, we’d contemplated as much when we saw the _Guide_ had returned, though sans its full crew...”

A thread of remorse for those lost. But they’d known the risks; that, these Unsundered had accepted.

That brand of cold resignation was a _very_ familiar feeling. Finding it distasteful to contemplate before his kin in this moment of rejoining, Emet-Selch shielded himself from it.

Behind him, the mortals -- who had done a remarkable job holding their tongues -- shifted forward.

The other robed figure gave a small start, and took two hasty steps back. Though both had been caught up in awe over his sigil, their disgust returned at the reminder of the mortals’ presence. They must have had a device to detect the shards, as nothing else explained how they’d detected them when Emet-Selch couldn’t even get a read on them through the doors.

As they both spoke with the powers inherent to their unsundered potential, the mortals surely heard every word they exchanged. So, it was no surprise when Cahsi piped up with a confused, somewhat tentative, “Er, hello?”

“-- Once we cleanse the craft,” the-one-marked-as-Nabrielas said, fear spiking at Cahsi’s greeting, “unless-- you- defend these shards? Why have you arrived with them? Why would you bring them _here?_ ”

“He knows not what he has done,” the one with the unfortunate habit of speaking as if he weren’t standing right before them said, “for he labors under their thrall. Tempering marks his soul.”

“No longer do I labor under any being’s tempering,” he rebuffed, affronted, “and never have I been enthralled by some mortal.”

“If _only_ he were enthralled by us in any way,” Cahsi said, perhaps thinking herself funny, “that he might give us less grief at every opportunity.”

That sparked a rapid back-and-forth between the two. “Long have you known them? And yet you remain whole.”

“If he is as he claims…”

“A sigil does not lie.”

“Worse trickery have we seen before.”

“Elidibus will be the judge of that.”

“Elidibus?” Emet-Selch broke in. 

The two paid him the briefest of nods, as one might agree to someone commenting that the sky was blue. Though he wanted to be vexed over the dismissiveness, he supposed he understood. Whatever oddity had overtaken his seat in the interim, Elidibus’ did not falter. Though he knew the Elidibus aboard the ship to not be his own, the title alone denoted enough for him to trust in it.

“Take me to him, then,” he entreated.

Another in-tandem nod.

But then, from the one claiming to be Nabriales, “The shards cannot walk with us.” 

And, from the one bearing Emmerololth’s mask, “Must they remain at all? He shall bring Her upon our heads...”

Fear warred with terror. Both ill-suited for his kin, but no less true in the moment.

“Who? Hy--?” Cahsi started, but, miraculously, stopped. By her small hiss, another had likely stomped on her foot to remind her to keep that name from her mouth at this juncture.

“We are not waiting in the ship that you tried to murder us in,” Alisaie said, much more reasonably.

“We have entreated Elidibus before.” Urianger said, then rightfully added, “Though perhaps not the Elidibus thee refers to.”

That was just baffling enough of a proposition that it pierced their terror.

“How would they have met with Elidibus?”

“Never has a shard entered these halls.”

“Never would a shard entreat with Elidibus.”

“Let Elidibus be the judge of _that_ , as well,” Emet-Selch cut in, with all the droll confidence an eternity at his post had taught him.

Though the two remained extremely uncertain, they acquiesced after a moment of silent deliberation. United tentatively in certainty that Elidibus could handle whatever a handful of shards and new Unsundered could throw at them (and this Emet-Selch knew because they projected it as they projected every other emotion), they gestured for the group to follow.

Their emotions were nearly indistinguishable from one another’s, Emet-Selch realized. Where one ebbed, the other flowed -- where one built up, the other broke down. They fed off each other in an endless cycle that spoke of a bond that would have painted Loghrif and Mitron green with envy.

“It’s not always great being the first,” Alphinaud murmured as they went. 

“And yet, you seem to manage it near everywhere you go,” G’raha said. “Rather, _we_ do. I hadn’t as much prior to making Cahsi’s acquaintance, however, so if there is to be a hook upon which I might hang a spot of blame...” 

“Definitely feel free to throw more than a spot on that particular rung,” Alisaie said, with all due affection.

“How are the rest of you so comfortable with whatever we just witnessed?” Scaeva asked. “I feel about four lightbulbs short of a four-pack.”

“I’ll admit, I’m only picking up on half of this exchange myself,” Garlond added, “and I actually paid attention while you were describing everything that happened before you crashed the party in the Burn.”

“We’ll reconvene and fill you in once we’re not about to meet Elidibus,” Alisaie assured, “-- for the third time.”

**. . .**

Upon meeting Hraesvelgr face-to-face, Alphinaud’s first thought had been: _Ysayle had best be right about his disposition toward peace, as one fang appears to be as long as I am tall._

His second thought was closer to: _I can scarcely comprehend even the edges of a life lived by a being this ancient._

Once upon a time, he’d entertained similar thoughts regarding the Ascians (and in roughly the same order, as Lahabrea’s destructive power had been singularly undeniable). On his first walk through Emet-Selch’s remade Amaurot, those thoughts had resurfaced. By his last walk through the _true_ Amaurot, the notion had tempered itself. Most ancient though the beings were, the life they lived varied precious little from the world he knew at its core: they celebrated what time they had, mourned what moments were lost, and ever strove to better themselves by whatever methods they could. 

Aboard _Olimbos_ , as the mechanical hub they’d arrived at was called, Alphinaud again found himself struggling to comprehend the world the unsundered inhabited. 

As suspected, Elidibus was not the Elidibus they or Emet-selch had known in Amaurot. He was technically the Elidibus they knew in their timeline, but obviously, this time had shaped him differently. He had been raised to the position after the ban on Creation magics occurred, to help usher in the new era. He knew of Emet-Selch mostly from his predecessor, who had known Hades personally. He also knew Emet-Selch from Lahabrea’s Chronicles.

Lahabrea’s Chronicle detailed the Final Years of Amaurot. It began with the city’s first murder of Emet-Selch by the Star’s first sundered (with no mention of how exactly a handful of sundered were running around), though the Chronicle retained Hades’ sigil in the off-chance that the murder didn’t stick. As far as any could tell, however, it did, and thus the Thirteenth Seat was retired out of both respect and a little dash of superstition. It ended with a ban on Creation magics in order to stem the drain upon the Star, lest their world be sundered and more shards arise to tear down what the immortals had built. The Fourteenth allegedly abandoned her post in opposition to the ban, thinking it a short-sighted remedy to a bigger problem. Though she would go on to become the patron of the dissenters, the Fourteenth herself was not heard from again. Despite her doubts, while technology was favored and magic quietly forgotten over the centuries to follow, the Star’s health recovered. Faced with its renewed strength and the realization that they had lost touch with their innate inclination toward Creation, those in favor of repealing the ban grew in number.

By that point, compromise fell beyond them all. And so disagreements became dissent, and the dissenters to extremists. A portion of people broke from society at large to practice magics they had scarcely the ability to control. They vowed that with their innate gifts, they would protect the Star through a method less drastic than the ban. In their haste and excitement to fulfill their promise, they summoned Hydaelyn. By accident or intention, none knew, and truthfully, it mattered not; for in the reactionaries’ fear when confronted with the first primal, their Star and the countless souls upon it were sundered.

What followed was a period of strife, as the Unsundered fled Hydaelyn’s grasp. The culmination of that great separation were what they saw before them, and what they themselves had witnessed through their lives.

All this, Elidibus explained for Emet-Selch’s benefit. Alphinaud and the others were allowed to stay only by Emet-Selch’s intervention, as Elidibus’ first instinct was to cast them out into the Rift.

To be again deemed under Emet-Selch’s protection was an uncomfortable feeling. Not as burdensome as it had been, but weighty nonetheless.

G’raha, not to be intimidated by their open disdain for shards, asked Elidibus, “You’ve never once ventured from these walls?”

“Were we to do so, we would scarcely be able to return.” 

“Hydaelyn is not so strong as that,” Emet-Selch argued. “Her presence is unrelenting, but spread thin. With the whole of the universe to watch, She can hardly devote significant resources to one cause.”

“So we once believed,” Elidibus said, cold and aloof despite his words, “and so I am pleased to hear has been your current experience. But by your tale, you have survived the Light for a limited time. Even a pebble grows heavy after a hundred miles.”

Olimbos -- for ancients were not ones to reinvent the wheel, especially if that wheel was a name -- was a three-tiered, fully operational and life-sustaining ‘space station.’ Alphinaud gathered that it was a massive complex with everything necessary to keep its populace alive, if not necessarily thriving. It floated through the Rift by means beyond mortal understanding. Cid was at once enamored by everything they saw, and horrified these beings had been living in it for eons without ever leaving.

On its initial flight into the Rift, Olimbos had housed several hundred.

Now, after countless failed attempts at finding a safe home beyond its walls and no few lost to despair (-- so they termed those who returned in whole to the Lifestream, never to return again), it boasted no more than twenty-eight.

Mouth twisting and eyes narrowed, Emet-Selch took in that news, processed it, and rejoined, “You cower in this place, barring yourself from your potential--?”

“We survive.” Elidibus’ tone brooked no argument. “Unlike what we believed to have come of you. Speaking of which, there is... much to consider in light of your… arrival. I bid you to allow us a moment to consider what now lays before us.”

Only Elidibus and the two robed figures, Nabriales and Emmerololth by title, were currently awake. The rest lay dormant in stasis chambers. In a consistent rotation cycle designed to minimize stress, they awaited their turn to assume a title and watch over Olimbos for their assigned years before returning to stasis. Elidibus freely admitted he had remained the most consistent and vigilant, while the other Convocation titles were used to denote those awake and aware.

Emet-Selch did not wish to _allow them a moment._ Watching him, Alphinaud half-expected him to deny the request, even though it definitely was no request.

But instead he said, “Very well. You’ve given me much to consider as well. We will reconvene in…?”

“I will fetch you once we are satisfied with our position on how to proceed.” Elidibus gave him a tight, humorless smile. “I understand this is not the reception you envisioned, Emet-Selch. Neither is it what I would have wished for a marvelous moment wherein you arrive before us both whole and alive. But time has taught us caution, if nothing else.”

At that, the Ondo’s nickname of _ancient ones_ felt most fitting. They resembled the Amaurotines in form alone, just as Emet-Selch did.

Though Alphinaud again expected him to argue, Emet-Selch didn't. A silent conversation seemed to occur between the two, as neither broke eye contact throughout their extended pause.

When Emet-Selch _did_ glance away, it was with an affected air of nonchalance. As far as his facades went, it was of remarkably poor quality; his disappointment bled through the tightened crease at the corners of his mouth, and the slow, trudging gait he used to return to the room's exit.

"Til then! I look forward to hearing more about your careful positioning." He waved his hand good-bye as he went, without actually glancing back to check the answer to any of his statements. "In the meantime, I assume I will have free reign to learn of your new _home._ Come along, mortals. I would hate for one of you to accidentally open an air lock and start off all sorts of alarms."

By the ringing silence of the other Ancients in the room, they were not welcome to stay. Even the more boisterous of their number filed out behind Emet-Selch with their opinions kept neatly to themselves.

**. . .**

“After that lovely talk, I propose we grab our ship and get out of here.”

“Usually I’m all for sticking around for even a _whiff_ of a treasure-trove on this scale, but actually? Garlond has the right of it. We’re not going to gain anything from these… people.”

“How precisely are we to fly back? The ship’s locked down.”

“They want us gone. Surely they’ll aid our passage.”

“To the contrary. They’re terrified that we’ll bring Hydaelyn down on their heads.” G’raha’s eyes flicked to Emet-Selch, who had posted himself in the corner of the plain, unremarkable room they had decided to stop and discuss in. “Do I speak true?”

One shoulder raised and dropped, feigning nonchalance. “All evidence considered, it is a fine assumption to make.”

He had made clear that he would not teleport them back to the Source until he had assured himself that he would be able to return. Nero fought him on that point, arguing that these weren’t even his people, and none of them had an obligation to stick around. He stopped once he realized that no others necessarily agreed with him, while Emet-Selch made clear he would not budge. As to their sole other option, G’raha didn’t trust his own abilities at traversing such a great and unknown distance alone, never mind with passengers. 

“So, what? We’re handing the reins over to these strangers while we twiddle our thumbs?” Nero asked.

“We can take the opportunity to learn as much as we can about this place,” Cid offered, as reasonably as possible. “Who knows, maybe those strangers won’t be as-- er- resistant to change as they seem.”

“Having heard their story and knowing their plight, I sincerely doubt that, but neither can I particularly blame them. All they’ve trusted is each other for so long… Anyway. Instead, I think we should focus on what we can manage on our own. Do you think we might begin with reaching an understanding as to why these rooms are so uniformly blank? -- Hold on.” Alisaie turned her eyes on her target. “Emet-Selch. When we were messing with these on the ship, you were too busy being obsessed with your screen. Did you ever try the keypads?”

Mind having clearly wandered elsewhere, Emet-Selch squinted at her with vague confusion before realizing what she was likely referring to. Glancing to the keypad by the door and on the inside of the room, he answered by leaving his corner-spot to poke at it.

Unlike when the rest of them had tried, it lit up and beeped at him. 

“Another soul-based locking mechanism.” Alisaie shook her head. “Even if you had a mountain of how-to manuals, Cid, I’m not too sure how you’d take that aspect out and make it workable for the rest of us… So, what’s it do?” 

“Let’s see.” He sounded as if he had a pretty good idea of what would happen, when G’raha knew for a fact that when he started pressing buttons, it was completely at random. G’raha spied symbols pop up over the keypad, but they were either wholly unrecognizable or penned in the ancient one’s advanced language. Either way, one button meant the same as any other.

Whatever he pressed paid off immediately. All of them jumped as the plain walls disappeared under a crash of dark blue and foamy green-white. Around them swirled a squall on open waters. It ripped at their hair and clothes, and pulled on their robe hems and loose adornments. When one wave rose and fell near them, the smell and sensation of seawater rained upon their heads. 

Alphinaud yelped and fell to his side as he looked down, finding his feet mere ilms above the churning sea with nothing to hold him up save an invisible barrier. Alisaie leapt forward to snag the back of his scarf and haul him up. On his other side, Urianger held perfectly still, as though he didn’t want to tempt gravity to remember his existence. 

They worried for nothing. The floor did not give way.

Cahsi turned in a tight circle, her excitement rising as she took in the truly impressive span of hyper-realistic waters. Her face had split in two with a wild, elated grin; when she turned it to G’raha, he could not help but return it. Though the sea roiled around them, it brought a spot of lightness and wonder after the grueling tale of the Unsundered’s fate.

On the other side of the room, Cid ran his hands through his windswept hair, and gave a startled laugh. Nero, caught in the same wide-eyed look-around as others, whistled low and appreciatively. 

Cid said, “Would you look at that! This brings me back to Omega’s digitized realities. Hey, Emet-Selch, that isn’t giving you any warnings about an in-coming fight or world-wide destruction, is it?”

“Not currently,” Emet-Selch replied, “though I could, if the simple pleasures of recreational reality bore you, summon a monster or two.”

“Hah! That would be nostalgic. Ask me again in a bit.”

“Do we get a say in this?” Cahsi asked, yet grinning.

“You get a say in how you defeat whatever monster crops up…”

G’raha huffed a laugh. “Ah, yes. Truly the height of adventurer’s rights.”

Even Emet-Selch cracked something like a smile.

“How about something less noisy?” Alphinaud asked, having to shout to be heard over the windstorm. 

“And less heart-stopping?” Alisaie teased.

“Hast thee any ideas what manner of visages it contains?” Urianger moved to Emet-Selch’s side. He probably didn’t realize it, but he stepped far more carefully than if the ground had looked solid. “Prithee, drop us not into an active volcano. Never have I the desire to feel the heat of lava from a distance which might sear my brow from my face.”

The windstorm swept away Emet-Selch’s verbal reply, but again he tapped at the keypad’s buttons.

Swift as it rose, the squall died. From the blue expanse sprouted tall waves of green, as knee-high grasses filled the space around them. Caught in a gentle, sweet-smelling breeze, they brushed, ticklish, against their legs. Hills rolled into the horizon line, so real-looking it seemed impossible to fathom they could not be touched.

Cahsi eyeballed that horizon line, then squared her shoulders and confidently marched toward it. Despite what should have happened, she did not smack face-first into a wall. She kept walking, farther and farther from their group, until she stood at the base of a hill that definitely should have been beyond the room’s reach. 

The others watched, a mix of baffled, bemused, and thoroughly intrigued.

Once there, she turned around and waved a hand high, cupping the other around her mouth to shout, “What are you guys waiting for?! Let’s see what’s over this hill!”

Interest piqued, G’raha threw caution to the wind and jogged to catch up with her. Pleased enough to also not smack into a wall, he again found himself smiling widely. Laughing in open amazement, Alisaie was hot on his heels, calling over her shoulder for Alphinaud and Urianger to hurry up. Despite the heckling, they continued a sedate pace, having waited for Emet-Selch to abandon the floating keypad (for it, at least, remained as a point of reference) and join them. Nero and Cid brought up the far back, caught in a debate over how this was possible-- and wondering if, unlike with Omega, they might actually find the chance to dig into the technicalities without risking life and limb.

At the top of the hill, they gained a fine vantage point from which to survey near-endless grasslands. Under a clear blue sky, only the occasional tall, rail-thin tree, boulder and rocky outcropping broke up the green.

Cahsi, in the guise of testing the floor’s boundaries, challenged Alisaie and G’raha to a race to the bottom of the hill. They accepted, of course; and then took the challenge again back to the top, for the best two out of three against Alisaie’s win; and then _again_ , as she once more outpaced her ‘elderly’ competitors.

That prompted Cahsi to swing her into a headlock and noogie, in a move that put such a disgruntled expression on Alisaie’s face that G’raha couldn’t help laughing. His laughter inspired faux vexation in Alisaie, such that she leapt at him with a cry of, _Oh, who’s laughing now?! Don’t forget who lost every race!_ as they tumbled down. Cahsi, not to be left out, jumped in at the earliest opening.

They thus discovered that while the ground _felt_ soft as grass, it left no stains on their skin and clothes no matter how much they rubbed one another’s faces into the dirt. They tired themselves out nonetheless, and trudged their way back up the hill to take a seat by their less roughhouse-inclined observers. Alisaie sat to Alphinaud’s left while Cahsi took his right, both leaning in at the same time to give him a sweaty hug, much to his immediate and vehement protestation.

Chest heaving from elation as much as exertion, G’raha flopped without thought next to Emet-Selch, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the sun. Though the wispy white clouds in the sky made for poor shade and the sun did not budge from its zenith, the shine did not burn as one would expect it to. Instead, the room remained at a perfect, if _slightly_ warm, temperature.

Emet-Selch broke off his conversation with Urianger, whatever it was, to ask him, “Satisfied? I apologize for the lack of mud for you to roll about and cool yourself off in.”

“That was indeed an oversight on your part,” he replied, lips quirked up at the edges (his face was beginning to hurt, truth be told), “which I will forgive only because I know you scarcely understand the mechanisms of this room any more than the rest of us.”

G’raha received a faceful of grass to his face for that. Surprised, he sat up and brushed the strands away quickly, sputtering all the while. _Eh--?!_ Tangible though they’d seemed, the grasses were definitely not removable! 

\-- _Right._

The Ascian, with the Creation magics.

When G’raha shot him a keen-eyed look, Emet-Selch feigned innocence. “Oh, dear. It looks like you picked up quite the rat’s nest while frolicking about.”

Picking up the very tangible strands of grass (clumps of dirt yet stuck to their roots-- what a nice detail), G’raha contemplated them for a moment before tossing the majority of them back at Emet-Selch. The ones with the most dirt, he made a point to rub into the white of Emet-Selch’s robes. The last move prompted him to at last fend him off with an indignant, “Now, just one moment!” and light shove away. Once G’raha fell back, he brushed off the strands and dirt with exaggerated irritation.

Urianger shook his head at their childish exchange, his expression otherwise remarkably and likely intentionally blank.

Catching it and remembering all at once that they were not actually alone, G’raha just barely held himself back from escalating matters with a well-aimed tackle. 

Figuring it innocent enough, he beamed at his would-be target. By how his tail flipped from one side to the other with firm _thwaps_ in between, his intent was probably not very well masked.

He channeled that warm, happy energy into a light, curious look between the two, folding his legs into a loose pretzel and settling back onto his hands as he did. “My apologies, Urianger. Had I interrupted a discussion most interesting? Might I be made privy to it?”

“We have visited nothing but speculation upon the ultimate purpose of this room’s wonders,” Urianger assured him. “For beings confined to an unchanging landscape, it is clearly a manner by which they might diversify their surroundings. Yet, I cannot help to wonder if it does not also harken to days whence they might have summoned their own miniature worlds into being.”

“He posits that the inclination to Create is an innate trait an Unsundered cannot wholly deny,” Emet-Selch supplemented when G’raha glanced at him for further elaboration, “which has been supported by the tale Elidibus told us.”

“While Emet-Selch has committed himself to the role of devil’s advocate,” Urianger said, seemingly entertained, “such that our debate may continue.”

“As it appears Alphinaud has bowed out due to personal distraction,” as if Cahsi and Alisaie could be termed as anything short of a natural disaster when they put their minds to friendly harassment, “you now stand a distinct chance of coming in second, Urianger.”

“Thy score-keeping hadst not been known to me ‘til now, I fear.”

“Oh? Would you have proceeded differently?”

“Nay, for mine is the logical stance, as thee hast just agreed.”

“Yes, it did make for a rather poor debate.” Emet-Selch sighed noisily. “Unfortunately, it was either that, or confront the larger question you truly wanted to ask. Neither avenue was particularly productive, but the latter invited a pointless headache that I quite wished to avoid on this lovely, entirely fabricated summer day.”

The larger question of what they were going to do, how and with who they would leave this place.

That was a large question, indeed. Stepping to its side lest it sour their respite, G’raha idly thought _tale_ to be a strange word to use. “Do you not believe Elidibus to be forthright with the events as they transpired?”

“All stories are told in a light most favorable to the teller. It is hardly my place to question the legitimacy of an operation which has managed close to tenfold the survival rate.”

Mind sticking to the little he had seen of Olimbos -- a beautifully crafted prison, all be told -- G’raha turned his eyes toward the idyllic horizon line. Perfect as the grasslands were, they could only be fake. 

While diplomacy and that earlier urging to retain the peace encouraged him to keep his mouth shut, he could not. 

“For a limited definition of ‘survival.’”

“As Elidibus said,” Emet-Selch returned, surprisingly evenly, “their situation called for an answer which would keep them whole and alive. In that, their success has been absolute.”

Opinion apparently yet in deliberation, Urianger directed his gaze, too, away from Emet-Selch and toward the horizon line.

“I will admit,” G’raha said into their shared quiet, “I too would take the poor debate over that one. Nonetheless, it will need to be discussed posthaste once we have acquired the information promised by Elidibus. I know little of how time works in the Rift, but I shudder to think of those awaiting our arrival being condemned to wonder for too long. If nothing else, a message will need to be devised and delivered.”

Urianger hummed, locking his hands together in his lap, one thumb stroking absently -- and, perhaps, nervously -- over his knuckles.

To his side, Emet-Selch inclined his head in silent agreement.

While he had been play-wrestling with Alisaie and Cahsi, Cid and Nero had decided to test the limits of the digitized space. Choosing to walk _behind_ the keypad -- which was shockingly possible -- they had shrunk into distant figures against the blue skyline, and appeared to yet be walking.

“-- Hey, G’raha!”

Blinking back from where his mind had mercifully blanked, G’raha’s ears perked toward Cahsi.

She stood a ways before him, still grinning, and gestured for him to stand as well. 

“We three have realized we’re now very hungry, and that we should all venture back out of this idyllic pasture in search of food. Our ship had rations, but I bet we could find something to eat aboard the Olimbos.” She glanced briefly to Emet-Selch, who merely raised his eyebrows in neither confirmation nor denial (for, truly, how would he know? It was merely a safe bet to make). Taking it for the former, she redirected her gaze to G’raha and again motioned for him to stand. “So, you and I should fetch Cid and Nero before they find the edge of this world and take a tumble off it. These four can figure out what we’re going to do for a meal.”

“Apologies we didn’t ask first,” Alisaie told Urianger.

“None needed. The hollowing demand of an empty stomach cannot be denied.”

Emet-Selch hmmed. “That certainly makes hunger sound far more interesting than what it is. I might start saying that, myself.”

At last standing, G’raha reflectively brushed his trousers free of grass that did not leave marks, and met Cahsi’s smile with one of his own. Though it occurred to him that Cid and Nero could likely hear their yelling even from a distance, and that shutting down the room would even more likely bring them right back to the start, he took the request to mean Cahsi had something she wished to discuss with him that the others needn’t hear. 

And so he didn’t protest, but fell in line a step behind her, content to learn as they went.

**. . .**

When she asked what she did not want the others to hear, he rather regretted not questioning her motives further before they departed.

Once they were plausibly out of earshot, she gave him a wobbly version of her earlier grin, laced her hands behind her head with forced calmness, and said, “So, G’raha! Sure has been a rough ride thus far, hasn’t it? Lots of stuff happening all at once. Is there anything you’d like to tell me while we’re, er, alone?”

“Ah…” Having expected her to take the lead on whatever she wanted to talk about, he mentally scrambled for a topic. “... Did you ever imagine your adventures would take you through the literal stars in the night sky?”

She chuckled. It sounded a little awkward. “No, can’t say I did. Yet, somehow, I’m not too surprised. Very few things seem impossible these days.”

“After all that has happened, I struggle to imagine what monstrosity would cause you to pause. Whatever it is, I’d hate to meet it, for it surely would spell the end of days for the rest of us.”

“Hah! Fortunately, what shocks me stems less from monsters and moral crises, and more from…” She ruminated on the wording she wanted, her pace slowing drastically, “surprises in the day-to-day. You know. The people. And our relationships with those people.”

… Was that right. And she wanted to talk to him, specifically, about these metaphorical relationships.

Right.

So be it.

Though his heart skipped a beat in his chest, he dove forward with a slight nudge to her side and a gentle grin, “From your waffling, I assume you have a particular one in mind? I know not how the Doman lord might surprise you when we are so far from home, but as you said, anything seems possible.”

“Doman-- eh? Oh! No!” She blushed. “Not him! Last I heard, Hien was doing just fine. I haven’t received any interstellar messages from him since we left Eorzea, however, so who knows?”

He figured, but it functioned as a nice lead-in to, “In that case, perhaps this is instead about a discussion that occurred between yourself and Emet-Selch…”

She stopped altogether at that, looking at him with true surprise.

“-- He told you about that?”

“Not directly.” He faked a wince. “Not in its entirety, either. But after a little teeth-pulling, I gathered the shape of it.”

“That…” She tugged at the end of her bangs, her whole self deflating with relief. “Wow, alright. That makes this conversation much easier. I’ll admit, I’m surprised you took the news so well.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t necessarily shocking to hear. Grief manifests itself in a variety of ways.”

“Grief?” She echoed. “Wait, why’d grief factor in?”

“What else would that recreation be an homage to?”

“Oh.” She straightened, her arms falling to her sides as her ears pinned onto him. “ _Oh._ Um. Right. Amaurot wasn’t what I meant, as far as surprises go. Well, not entirely, though we really should discuss what that Hythlodaeus shade means, too. It’s awfully self-aware.”

Expression blanking, he felt his stomach drop. 

“-- There is an Hythlodaeus shade?”

She winced for real. “Err, ye….s. Wait, how about you tell me what you know, and then I’ll tell you what I know, and we can compare notes!”

“I don’t know much more than the fact that he’s terribly defensive about his jaunts to the ruins of Amaurot, which he has begun rebuilding.”

“Great, great, okay, very great, ah--”

“Whatever else there is surely can’t be that bad.”

“-- He and I had a talk about you and him.”

Oh.

“...”

“So I know you two have been... together? Is that the proper word?”

“...”

“... G’raha?”

Where nervous butterflies fluttered about, wasps now buzzed. 

“Must we discuss this now?” Try though he did to loosen up, his voice sounded strangled to his own ears. “We’re in the midst of a delicate negotiation.”

Her shoulders and ears drooped. “You and Emet-Selch? Really? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“-- Not-- no, not that _us._ We’re-- we’re fine.” He struggled to keep his tone low, rather than the embarrassed crackling it _wanted_ to do. “Rather, there is the delicate negotiation between the larger group of us and the creators of this station to contend with.”

“That’s true.” So she said, but she had obviously resolved to push through the trifling matter of their uncertain future, for she dug her heels in and continued with, “But I wanted to just say-- well- warn, sort of, because, _I_ get it, I don’t have any trouble, I’m pretty happy as long as you’re happy. I’m only worried if you’re feeling pressured or something by him, but the others-- actually, they might be coming around too, I don’t know because I haven’t asked, but-- it isn’t like you two are exactly subtle!”

What?!

Was that true? That couldn’t be true!

He was extremely subtle! He had decades of practice at that very art! If anyone wasn’t subtle, it was Emet-Selch and his endless need to make his every thought be heard--!

Through force of habit alone, G’raha kept his ears from pinning and tail from lashing, lest any watching wonder what had gone wrong in their conversation. He did bury his rapidly heating face into his hands, unwilling and unable to hold eye contact with Cahsi for a moment longer.

“Cahsi,” he pleaded through closed fingers, “while I appreciate your forthright approach on a great many subjects, and your kindly warning on _this_ in particular, may we please shelf this discussion for another time?”

“I--” when he peeked out from between his fingers, Cahsi wavered, her mouth working around words that she mercifully did not voice. Finally she deflated, shifting her weight uneasily foot-to-foot, and allowed, “yes, alright, we can-- for the moment, anyway, because I really think it’d be good if someone knew what was happening between you and-- huh?”

A faint buzz borne from the room around them and not merely his own nerves filled the air. 

Dropping his hands from his face, he watched with wide eyes as the grasslands fizzled and faded from around them. Though his mind struggled to process what he saw, the area undeniably shrunk and shifted under their feet. They abruptly found themselves placed quite near to one another, as the hill and horizon line both disappeared. Urianger went from well out of earshot to just two arm’s lengths away, while Cid and Nero were left blinking in confused delight at being nose-to-nose with a plain white wall.

Embarrassment at being caught wrong-footed by _Cahsi_ of all people on the subject of _Emet-Selch_ receding, he took a swaying step away from Cahsi and turned instinctively to the door.

In answer to their unasked question, the door slid open to reveal Elidibus and, interestingly, only Elidibus.

The shadows of his mask hid his eyes. Beyond that, he made no effort to hide how quickly he glanced over them to focus on his primary concern.

That person stood slowly from the plain, smooth ground. Urianger already stood beside him, with Alisaie and Alphinaud a mere step behind. They, unlike him, were not prone to underestimating an immortal. Then again, they had far more to lose.

“Emet-Selch.” That felt less like a greeting, and more like an assurance that he was given the attention he needed. As if any of them could have missed the grassland’s disappearance and his subsequent entrance. “We have reached a decision regarding your and their presence here.”

“So soon?” was Emet-Selch’s coy reply. “It appears ‘caution’ does not entail as much as it once did. I recall a full week’s interview coupled with at least three performance exams.”

Elidibus spread open hands to his sides. “The discussion was a mere formality when it came to you, who is, naturally, welcome here. We are glad our people’s sacrifice was not entirely in vain, as it allowed you the means to reach us.”

His eyes narrowed. “That said...”

“Our sensors detected the use of Creation magics, which I presume you know to be prohibited. As you have just arrived, and from a world and time so removed from this one, we understand that the prohibition may… slip your mind.” Keen-eyed but faintly unimpressed, Emet-Selch remained silent. Elidibus continued, tone reminiscent of an undisturbed pond: smooth, calm, and possibly hiding something unpleasant with many teeth, “We will revisit the issue should it slip again. In addition, as long as you wish it to be so, the Sundered are likewise welcome to stay.”

He paused.

Half the mortals in question bristled; the other half frowned, tense. Once Emet-Selch realized the pause was in fact a silent request for affirmation, Emet-Selch sneered-- then fought the expression down to a gusty sigh and exaggerated shrug.

“Yes, yes, I understand. They’re my guests. I’ll make sure they don’t crawl through the station’s vents or rip apart any precious paneling.”

Though G’raha had the distinct impression he wasn’t pleased about it, Elidibus accepted that for what it was. “They will find our facilities to be more than accommodating.”

“-- Is there a ‘simple condition’ for us, too?” Alisaie asked, taking a step to put herself level with Emet-Selch. “We wouldn’t want to overstep your hospitality.” 

“Not a condition, as such.” Though his expression and voice remained too cool to tell, Elidibus inclined his head in a token acknowledgement of the magnitude of what was asked. “We simply cannot allow any of you to leave for the time being. Not as you are, at least.”

It wasn’t as shocking as it should have been, probably.

Nonetheless, Cid asked, “How long is that estimated to be, exactly?”

“It is difficult to be sure.” That sounded like an honest admission. “We may revisit that when it becomes pertinent.”

“Though we would not wish to impose our sense of time upon you, it remains nevertheless true that the expectations of how long we are to remain will become pertinent very shortly,” G’raha said. “Others await our return. At the least, we must assure them of our safety before they seek us out of their own accord.”

For a brief moment, G’raha wondered if Elidibus would take that as a threat. He then wondered if he minded that Elidibus did, and whether that would truly hinder their stance. The pressure of a broader discovery by Hydaelyn’s people could encourage him to make a decision faster... or to request that Emet-Selch retract his protection and allow them to cast them out of whatever constituted an airlock for the Rift. Unlike the Paragons they knew from their original timeline, these were not the sort to underestimate their enemy through notions of superiority.

For an equally brief moment, Elidibus considered him. He then looked to Emet-Selch and asked, “Has time truly grown short?”

“For them?” Emet-Selch gave a _what can you do_ shrug and gesture, shaking his head. “The question of when they might return to their own became pertinent upon their very arrival, so limited is their perspective.”

While G’raha mentally scoffed at that _just-had-to-add-it, didn’t you?_ jab, Elidibus accepted at once what Emet-Selch had to say. ”Then I apologize for the inconvenience, but we will not be able to answer it quite yet. Nor may we provide a timeline. As you might expect, our procedures haven’t accounted for shards to walk among us.” 

He sounded vaguely amused. Yet, when G’raha checked his posture to see if that hint was true, he found no such indication. With neither malice nor concern, Elidibus simply informed them of what they could expect. In a bid to hasten his understanding of their plight, Cahsi and Alisaie began to protest. They sensed that this was no priority for Elidibus, perhaps; G’raha felt the same, which sorted in the back of his mind as a thorn of worry. 

Emet-Selch swiftly interrupted them, speaking over their words. “Every step must proceed with due regard and caution. We understand.”

That was unusually cooperative for him. G’raha glanced at him from the corner of his eyes, wondering what that was all about.

As he hardly knew Emet-Selch beyond eon old tales, Elidibus merely nodded. After a slight beat of hesitation, he commented, “These beings must be remarkable for you to journey with them. It has given us much to think about.”

“What is remarkable is how far Olimbos has come. It’s far better than my last stay.” Elidibus clearly didn’t understand what he meant by that; before he could request clarification, Emet-Selch continued smoothly, yet even-keeled and, to all appearances, both politely sincere and sincerely polite. “Will you not walk on solid ground again one day, Our Exalted Elidibus?”

Again, with that humorless humor, “Do you not find the virtual world fulfilling, Most Eminent Emet-Selch?”

Dismissively, “I don’t, and I can’t imagine our people do, either.”

“You may have the right of it. Long have we striven to return to the world our ancestors knew. Once a balance between Light and Dark has been achieved, we may yet.” He paused. “But we have lost many in attempting. It will be some time before we will try again.”

“When did Hermes and Hestia leave on their excursion with the vessel we have now returned to you?”

“... I would need to consult our records for that exact date.”

“I see.” Neutral. Then, in a tone more recognizably Emet-Selch, “Your hospitality is appreciated. Allow me some time to appreciate it further with my guests, if you would.”

Elidibus readily agreed, and thereafter excused himself. The door slid shut with hardly a whisper behind him, leaving them once more in the plain, white room.

No few of them had remarks and opinions to give, G’raha thought. As they began to, however, Emet-Selch ignored them in favor of going to and stopping before Cid. He stuck out one hand, palm up, and raised an expectant eyebrow.

When Cid blinked down at his hand and then up to him, Emet-Selch finally clarified, “I require use of your link pearl. I shan’t call it ‘borrowing,’ as even if I had the intent to return it, it won’t be in any state for you to use.”

“Who will it be in a state for?” Cid asked, already pulling the requested communicator from his ear.

“A new old friend.”

“Your ‘Most Exalted Elidibus,’ huh.” He handed over the link pearl. “That implies you won’t be able to merely walk down the hall and knock on his door.”

“Was I too subtle in my intent prior to this request?” He closed his hand around the communicator. “Apparently. Then let me make clear that we are to return to Hydaelyn promptly, long before your vessels wither into the ashy husks time wishes them to be. I assume there are no protests to that course of action?”

“None here, Emet-Selch,” Cid replied, for he was in no position to decline. Even if Olimbos posed a technological finding of a lifetime, it would be worth nothing without a life in which to spend it. Though he looked torn between relief and curiosity, after a brief internal struggle, he settled for a good-natured, “Or should that be Master Eminent Emet-Selch?”

“For the likes of you? I’ll revisit that offer at a future date.” Drawled with the vague impression of a smirk, he then blanked his expression and bade them to follow him out of the room and back toward where they had docked.

Urianger and the other Scions held back slightly to share a curious, disbelieving glance.

Personally, G’raha wasn’t sure what to expect, but he knew Emet-Selch not to make promises -- explicit or implicit -- without the intent to fulfill them. He followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oohohoho, how the tables turn with time travel!!
> 
> ... :(
> 
> \-- anyhow, thank you for reading! find me at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter :]


	11. Chapter 11

More than any plague and plight, indecision devastated kingdoms great and small.

It often started small: where to funnel new funds; how to utilize a new space; where to send the newest refugees. Then in times of catastrophe and disaster, it bred inaction. From there, it leveled cities, felled emperors, and ended the eternal. The Paragons agreed unanimously regarding indecision’s high price. Though ascended Ascians -- such as Achilles, the Nabriales Emet-Selch had known, so arrogant had he grown -- enjoyed arguing the point, citing disaster after disaster that destroyed more than mere indecision, they would not be swayed. Had they faltered, wavered, or questioned their cause, they wouldn’t have survived as long as they did.

That understanding did not bar them from regret.

Long had it been since Emet-Selch had indulged himself in _regret._ Its bite differed from guilt, which nipped at his heels ever since Zodiark’s grasp had loosened from his heart. Where guilt threatened him with indecision and inaction, regret galvanized him to leap from a parapet if only it might right an inescapable wrong.

Regret filled every step he took toward the docking bay.

As expected, the ship they arrived on remained there. Equally predictable was the lack of precautions taken in securing it. Those aboard Olimbos had not ever imagined their walls to be breached. Rather, they knew that once those walls _were_ , there was no fight left to fight.

“Just like that, we’re leaving?” one of the mortals asked. They followed him with the quiet trepidation of animals in a new place, unsure where dangers lay. Or, they knew not what to make of his mood. Most likely, a mix of both.

“Just like that,” he echoed.

In the air around him lingered tangled knots of emotions and memories. Invisible to the eye and heavy on the soul, they blanketed Olimbos’ every inch. At an unremarkable door, two soulmates bid each other good-bye before one departed with the Lahabrea and Igeyorhm on their scramble to freedom. In a particularly rounded curve of the hallway, the first and last caretaker instructed the only cluster of children in basic mechanical repair. One child returned years later to the selfsame spot and imprinted it with a deep feeling of gratitude and grief for that caretaker, who had opted to sleep in stasis until they found a permanent home outside of the Rift. Olimbos was a well-worn home, packed with the dreams of the sleeping and the still. It took effort to shield himself from the press of _life lived_ , cold though the ship’s metal walls had otherwise grown. Deeper into the hub, Nabriales and Emmerololth puttered about, their souls beacons of begrudging resignation at the disturbance in their placid existence. 

Emet-Selch did nothing to disabuse them of the notion because, as mentioned: they were leaving.

Just like that.

It wasn’t as if staying were a true option. Though inaction had resulted, indecision did not bind Elidibus’ hands. He knew very well a Sundered’s lifespan. Out of respect, he stayed himself from choices which would cause their return to the Lifestream prematurely. In return, he expected Emet-Selch to keep them quiet and in line until they inevitably perished under the weight of their own mortality.

Aside from Elidibus, Emet-Selch recognized no soul aboard the Olimbos. Though he likely had crossed paths with them sometime in his many journeys, they were either too different or their meeting too remote for him to know them by sight. Nonetheless, he strove to memorize what he could of them (sleeping though they were, far away though he was, short though the walk to the docking bay was). Before he left, he regretted their loss. In Amaurot, he hadn’t let himself feel such things, or take note of any beyond Hythlodaeus. How could he? Indecision would have paralyzed him, and surely killed the others.

As he had been in their original timeline, Elidibus was a steadfast presence against Emet-Selch’s soul. When Emet-Selch had need of him, a simple request -- a quick knock upon Elidibus’ awareness -- would attract his attention. Until then, however, he wished to give Emet-Selch a measure of privacy and peace. He believed him to be settling in. He had no reason to rush an interrogation, as they had all the time in the world. Olimbos was in no danger, after all. 

Because of that trust and respect, he was easy to placate.

Emet-Selch led the mortals to the docking bay, then sent a pulse of regretful apology to the three other Unsundered before raising his shields entirely. No alarm dimmed the lights or pierced his shields; no Unsundered rushed to their location. They believed the apology to be regarding his need for shields at all.

It was a bit of a relief to have them up and the three shut out. Even trapped in a mindless prison, they were so very… alive.

It made it both harder and easier to leave.

He stopped by the keypad outside the room that led to their ship. Eying it, he focused his attention on the linkpearl in his hand and infused it with a guiding message for Elidibus. The mortals noticed nothing, of course. Even Cahsi, sensitive as her Echo had become, was blind to what wasn’t for her. Setting the linkpearl below the keypad, he then turned himself from it and toward the door.

Locked. The locked door.

Once he opened it, Olimbos’ docile atmosphere would crumble.

“Do you need a focal point?” asked the Exarch. Without his notice, he had stopped at Emet-Selch’s elbow. When he looked down at him, the Exarch raised both eyebrows back. “I assume you planned to teleport the entire ship home rather than brute force its systems into cooperating with your desires.”

He had been planning the latter, actually, at least until Elidibus keyed in to what he was doing and made moves to stop him.

Alone, the ship’s odd material and the Rift’s general complexity complicated the transportation spell greatly. If he’d had a week to sit down and work out the necessary ingredients and twists and turns it might take, it would have posed no problem. But as he hadn’t that time, well-- another managing the little details of their destination simplified things. Especially one he’d previously worked (and admittedly worked well) with.

Except, what they had done was nothing compared to what the Exarch proposed.

“I’m all for cutting to the chase,” he agreed, “but this will be a far cry more complicated than our joint practice.”

“One never knows the true might of another until they apply themselves under incredible, life-threatening pressure,” the Exarch-- G’raha- said, cheerily. 

“That certainly does sound like a Scion motto,” another-- a short Elezen- _Alisaie_ \- agreed.

“We shall depart shortly for the Crystal Tower, then,” Urianger said.

“And leave this horrid marvel behind?” Scaeva protested. “With hardly anything to show for it?”

Garlond shook his head at him. “Much as I’d like to stay and learn, too, it’s clear we’ve got no place here. Worse, if we linger too long, they might start thinking we do.”

“Might I be so bold -- or foolish -- to believe this will not be the last time we are here?” Alphinaud asked of Emet-Selch.

“That would be foolish indeed,” he replied. “Lest you wish to embrace your end in the Rift’s indifferent current.”

He had the gall to give him a slight, bemused smile, and cast his gaze toward the not-so-carelessly-abandoned linkpearl. “That was perhaps poor wording on my part. I daresay this will certainly not be the last time _you_ are here.”

“... Ideally,” he allowed. Not willing to entertain further needless prying, he looked again to G’raha and said, “Make ready.”

G’raha took his staff from his back -- though Emet-Selch had told him countless times he didn’t truly need it, as his magic came from a construct far away while the ability to manipulate it came from within -- and nodded.

**. . .**

“One final note. Recall what I said about linking our souls?”

G’raha’s eyes widened. He spared a quick glance to those around them, affirming they were reasonably distracted (or at least appeared to be). Fortunately, Cahsi has chosen that moment to try her hand at the locked computer systems aboard their craft. Apparently, it had recognized her soul enough to grant her temporary access to Olimbos’ mainframe — which she couldn’t read — but then it began to malfunction. By her frustrated exclamations about weird text popping up and Cid’s _I told you so_ expression, she wasn’t having much luck.

To Emet-Selch, he said, “I… do. Here? Now?”

“I know. I too had imagined a more intimate setting for our first.”

“Dare I call that sweet? Considering the likelihood of your soul consuming mine—“

“That’s very unlikely. It will be only enough for me to bring us to our destination as you know it, which is far better than as I know it.”

“That much is true. Even here, I feel the Tower’s pull.” With weak amusement. He rallied himself. “Considering our lack of alternative options, as always, there is no harm in trying, hm?” 

“Oh, there may be plenty of harm--”

“Hush.” Patting his arm and realizing he quite wanted the assurance of his nearby presence, G’raha stepped close in the guise of better catching his words. “Instruct me, and swiftly.”

The muffled din of an alarm rumbled through Olimbos when Emet-Selch waved the ship’s doors open once more. Fate thus sealed, they hurried inside and to the command room. Once there, Emet-Selch pulled G’raha to the side and quickly instructed him. At the end, on G’raha’s suggestion, Emet-Selch also directed Cahsi to monitor his computer. Though it was still locked, it might have been so by proximity. If their luck was good, they wouldn’t need it. Considering their track record with adventures that became much more difficult than they should have been, Emet-Selch refused to bet on their luck.

With a peculiar expression that spoke of great reluctance, he instructed G’raha in the basics of soul-linking. It would require him to open his personal aether to another. It’d be like an invitation to combine magics, except the goal was internal rather than external. 

Knowing that Emet-Selch fed crumbs when he thought a full loaf to be unnecessary, that probably didn’t even cover half of what G’raha had signed himself up to experience. But it felt like enough for the moment, so G’raha accepted it, focused himself on the Tower’s distant call ( _keen_ , more like, as a piece of itself had strayed so far from its reach), and opened his desire to teleport home— the impulse, insofar as it represented himself-- to Hades. 

A silly thought for a silly feeling. On his end, it felt like beginning a spell he had no intention of ending. Either it would suspend forever or fizzle out. Even as he did so, he gave a worried-looking Cahsi (who had abandoned the computer to join the twins and Urianger in watching the two of them once they realized they were about to begin their spell) a tiny, lopsided smile, hoping to downplay his own uncertainty.

For a second, there seemed to be no cause for his worry. Nothing happened. No elaborate hand gestures, no spiced ingredients lit with green fire, or any other stereotypical hallmarks of ancient magics that dealt with the soul. Instead, Hades merely gazed back at him.

Then there was the invisible and intangible touch of a cool presence. Akin to how still air touched one’s skin, or how one attuned to a new aetheryte, G’raha thought; undeniable, but difficult to fathom. 

On the physical level, G’raha found himself hyper-aware of Hades’ presence at his side. It threw him back to the night nearly a summer prior, when he had been alone in Rhalgr’s Reach and playing at magics he should have long abandoned. He had wanted someone, anyone, to join him, and help him chase away the sleepless dark. Albeit in presence intangible, Hades had been a surprisingly fine bedfellow for that particular task. Before Hades answered his call, though, there had been only the hard, cold bed, the lonely stretch of shadows along the wall, the way his pillow hadn’t really muffled the quiet around him-- 

_Rhalgr’s Reach? I’d much prefer Revenant’s Toll._

The suffocating dark fled from Hades’ light. Instead: sparkling crystal and frozen fire, blue and orange, Allag’s legacy and Bahamut’s rage. Grey stone underneath, the Labyrinth's sprawl unearthed. Long ago he arrived with Rammbroes at Saint Coinach’s Find. What had impressed him most was the turbulent nature of the land around them; that such a twisted, tangled place could hide such a magnificent relic…

_Focus._

On?

_The ship’s final destination. It would be rather difficult to disembark from atop a spire._

… Revenant’s Toll!

Not in the market. Not in the square. But to the west, in the fogfens, where the imperials had once manufactured the Ultimate Weapon, in another time and another life. Not the swamp, though squashing a marlboro was an amusing image. The fields. Mostly flat. It might squash one of the giant, frog-like nix. An acceptable, though gross, loss.

Wasn’t Mor Dhona full of aetherial lightning?

But it was where they were expected.

_Yes. Keep that in mind._

His mind… He became conscious all at once of a splitting in his skull. Just like that night--

_Focus, Raha!_

A foreign intrusion took hold of him and roughly narrowed his thoughts to Revenant’s Toll. Aloud, he gasped and staggered. 

Though he blinked his eyes and strove to _see_ , the world was cast in stark contrast: black and white and buzzing purple. Every figure and image was caught in constant motion. Like shapes made of sand at a shoreline: shifting along familiar patterns but different, incomprehensibly fluid. The purple dominated because it burned the largest and brightest. Tears sprang to his eyes when he stared too long at its hulking shape. Its edges ruffled and curved as if it were draped in rustling robes, it clutched a jagged staff of some sort in its right claw. Under tattered cloth upon its left shoulder, blots of horrid, corrupted red-purple-black aether ate miniature craters in a starburst pattern that he dimly recognized from Hades’ flesh-and-blood shoulder. Another blink, and the form dissipated behind amorphous light.

The longer he looked, the more he fought through the pain to see beyond Hades, he saw flickers of other colors amid the blurry black and white shapes-- a blue he instinctively knew as _Cahsi_ ; yellow, _Urianger_ ; a color he had never before seen and so could not name, _Alphinaud_. 

All desiring to go home. To the Source. To Revenant’s Toll.

To Hydaelyn. 

Again: a heavy hand landed upon his mental shoulder and dragged him from _that_ thought. Recognizing the presence, knowing it knew well even if communication wasn’t its (or his) strong suit, he went with it.

In reward, he was informed, _Your soul, nine times rejoined. It’s delightfully dense._

\-- Was he supposed to be flattered by that?

A pulse of warmth, so gently fond it caused the tears to fall from his eyes. 

Yes, apparently, he was.

 _We’re doing well._

That was a nice thought. He’d hoped they would. They had practiced joining in more ways than one before. This was, as he’d said, merely the other half. The next step.

Exasperated amusement suffused through him. It was deserved, he supposed; this was hardly the next step for most creatures. They were incredibly fortunate. He was incredi—

They had a job to do, Raha reminded them ( _they did not have much time!_ ). When would they start the teleport?

— …!

Oh. 

They already had. 

Somehow, he suddenly knew: Hades had wrapped the ship, its passengers, and its delicate mechanical contents in his teleportation magics. Relying on Raha’s focus, he was in the midst of hurtling them out of the Rift and to Revenant’s Toll. Hopefully, the landing would be relatively smooth, but he didn’t know for sure.

The others saw only the two of them look at each other in preparation before Hades had lifted his hand overhead, Raha had staggered, Hades had snapped his fingers-- 

_Not yet. I’m in the midst of my cast. Give it a half-second more._

Time had slowed? Were they caught in the stream or between dimensions?

_Please! We’d hardly be so sloppy. We are merely speaking more directly and thus, relative to other methods of communication, instantaneously._

His brain felt like it was instantaneously melting in his skull.

 _To be expected. Our linking was crude and rushed. I’m impressed it worked at all._ So he said, but underneath it, Raha felt bubbling regret: that they linked for the first time at such an inopportune moment, that he had to rush it, that they had to leave like this at all. That they were leaving the other ancients behind. 

They lived an existence he could not bear. Trapped and without Creation… Without a god or goal. 

To find and leave them in that miserable existence, Raha was sorry, too.

Had he caused them to enter such a state?

Not he, Raha, but he, Hades. Rather— had _they_ , both Raha and Hades? That was a terrible possibility.

Guilty regret.

It cycled between the both of them. Weight thus shared, its burn crested and tempered in a transformation that transfixed Raha as much as gladdened him. From bleeding wound to low ache, they continued through it. Forward, ever forward. No indecision, limited regret. 

Once it ran its course, Hades repeated with fond, back-your-own-back pride, _All the same. We’re doing well._

That, he meant with his entire being. Every inch, every ilm, every speck.

Raha glowed under the praise. His satisfaction doubled between them, caught in a feedback loop too short and too sweet. Together, their shared focus sharpened on their desired destination. 

Close to the Tower. Revenant’s Toll. Their friends.

They would arrive home soon.

**. . .**

. . . se̵e̶ y̵̛͓o̵͙̿u̵̠̾. . . ḩ̷̤̫̦̮̄̅̄͛͠ë̷̫͚͈̈́ä̸́r̵͎̪͍̞͙͂̽̋̚ y̶̦͋̈́͌̌͊o̸͙̫̻͔̗͎͐̾͌̓ȕ̷͍̗̯̦̄ͅ. I̶̢͎͇̣̎̍̿ͅ ̷̦̘̾̉̿͊k̵̨͈͙͎̻̀̿̌̋n̴͙̱̼̽̎ǭ̸̟͝w̸̖͍̎̅͊̃̈́ ̵̡̖͙̫͍͂̓͝y̶̛̙̥̤̰͝o̶̳͓͇̤͌ͅu̷̗̥͆̈́͂̚ . . .

.̷̧̨̪̭̹̖̬͔̬̺́͗̑̂ ̴̡͎̤̜̬̞̘̺̖̩͛̈́͐̈́̽̂̇͂̍͠ .̸̨͓̜̟͆̅͐͘ c̶̨̨̲͕̦̥̻̞̠͔͌̔́̍̄̈̉́͛ơ̵͙̯̻̾̅͆̏̈́̉̑͠m̶̺̠̫͚͇̼̰̣̤̫̅̌͒̌̒̚͜͝e̵̛̛̠̗̼̿̇̿̀̽͛̿͌̓ ̵͍̗̤̜̦̜̲̖̳̲̀́̂̔́̓̄̊͠ḩ̸̛͇̟̭͓̣̝̮̩̼̪̪̔̆͗̌̎̃͜ȍ̴̢̟͖͈̰͙̱̫͓̜̃̒̒̑̑͘̕m̷̢̭͈̣̤̹͇͊͋e̸̬͔͚̱̥̤̥̼̘͛ .̷̧̨̪̭̹̖̬͔̬̺́͗̑̂ ̴̡͎̤̜̬̞̘̺̖̩͛̈́͐̈́̽̂̇͂̍͠ .̸͆

.̷̧̪̭̹̖̬͔́͗̑̂ ̴̡͎̤̜̬̞̘̺̖̩͛̈́͐̈́̽̂̇͂̍͠.̸̨͓̜̟͆̅͐͘ .̷̧̨̪̭̹̖̬͔̬̺́͗̑̂ ̴̡͎̤̜̬̞̘̺̖̩͛̈́͐̈́̽̂̇͂̍͠ .̸̨͓̜̟͆̅͐͘

.̸̧̧̔͑ ̶̙͈́͑..̸ ̶̙͈́͑

c̶o̸m̴e̴ ̶h̴o̸m̵e̷

**. . .**

According to Elidibus’ monitor, the ship had forcibly departed from the docking bay. In its sudden launch, it had broken two fastening locks and cracked three exterior panels. All would need to be repaired within the day cycle.

Nabriales and Emmerololth arrived at his office without invitation, and entered with a mere pulse of _we’re here!_ rather than a physical knock or verbal by-your-leave.

Emmerololth began with an alarmed, “-- Elidibus! There has been a disturbance.”

“There has been a disturbance for the past five hours and thirty-seven minutes.”

“Yes, Emmerololth, but now there is a much more dire disruption.”

“A disturbance removing itself need not be a disruption…”

“Elidibus, will you allow this?”

“Elidibus, are we to allow this?”

Elidibus at last faced them. “Pray tell, what are we allowing?”

“Their departure!” the two cried in tandem. “The mortals, and Emet-Selch! They have taken the craft.”

“A feat most impressive,” he murmured. “If he has managed to breach our shields as well as the Rift’s pull, who are we to stop him?”

“The consequences--”

“-- are his to deal with.” 

Though he had privately had his share of doubts and had begun preparations in case Hydaelyn’s presence came crashing upon their heads, the consequences in the immediate aftermath were exactly what Elidibus had expected. That was to say: none they could not recover from. While Olimbos hadn’t hosted a stranger visitor in all its time, it would not be bothered by his loss. 

“We had much to ask him,” Nabriales argued. “We could have learned much from him.”

“There is little to learn from a ghost so old and inexperienced as he,” Emmerololth murmured, ever negative.

Nabriales, ever focused, countered, “Every time we open a book, we learn from ghosts old and inexperienced.”

Elidibus had no interest in such a debate. He said, “I sense a token left for me. I shall return with word of what it contains,” and went to do so.

As expected, they hardly noted his departure. 

Certainly, neither they nor Elidibus noticed the scrawling text that appeared upon his main computer. When Elidibus returned to his office bearing a linkpearl with a message explaining Emet-Selch’s intentions and entreatment that Elidibus use the device to speak with him in the future, he found his computer screen newly blank and black. It failed to respond to any of his diagnostics. Unsure of the cause but knowing it likely related to their visitors’ departure, he disconnected it from Olimbos’ systems and relocated it to the repair department for further examination by a more specialized engineer. For a peculiar situation like this, he decided Daedalus would do. 

He was the last of Olimbos’ original designers, though he’d slept in stasis through more than half of Olimbos’ voyage. Having been too heartbroken by their general state of affairs, Daedalus had requested not to be woken for anything less than Olimbos’ destruction. 

In an abundance of caution, Elidibus believed this counted as _close enough._

(Had he lacked that well-developed sense of responsibility and paranoia, the primal infection from a Warrior of Light’s errant spell would have certainly led to Olimbos’ end. As it was, an intervention beyond Daedalus’ skill had been required-- a mortal by the name of Biggs III, and the two-fifths immortal team that supported him.

But, that was a story for another day.)

What he missed was the scrawling text which took it over. Two words, endlessly repeated: **come home**.

c̶o̸m̴e̴ ̶h̴o̸m̵e̷

c̴̨̙̑͂͘ö̶̫́̈̕m̷͕̥͎̈́͠ê̸̮͖̯̩͖̔̂͒ ̷͖̼̖̌h̷̖̭̬̍̓o̴̖̒̈́͛͝͝m̶̗͈̩̳̃̚e̷͈͕̖͊

t̶̺͚͓̼͇͕̹͚͆̈̕o m̷͂e̶̻͎̍̅̌̒̓͝͝ ̵̟͔͆̓̈́̂t̷̗̜̼̪͕̾̋͌̐͆̚o̴͉͖͗ ̶͉̰̐̄͒̔̊͒̚Ș̶͕̭̹͕̣̉̓͑̃͘̚ā̷̡̺͕̻͓͚̽̇͂̆̽̍ḟ̸͉̤͎̗͔̬̉̋̿͒̚͘e̷̛͈̲͎͙͈̺͌͗̎̑͊̅t̵̢̧̼͎̦͉̊͊̆͝͠y̸̢̧̛̙͖͎̟̫͒͗̈́͆͒͝

c̷͋̅o̴̞͘m̵̞̱̳͑̊̀̅̍̅͒͠ȩ̶̡̝̪͙͖̘̾̃̌̈́̓͠ ̷͔͓̝̠̀̍ **h̵̭̜̎͑̈̍̑̇̚͜o̶̝̳̲͐͐̈́̈́̎͋̌͝m̶͙̩̮̜̫̏̊̿̓́̓͂̍** e̷̛͕͉͙̖̰̖̒͌̽͂́ c̷̦̲̼̭̩̰̹̰͋̅͋̎͗̈́o̴̞͘m̵̞̱̳͑̊̀̅̍̅͒͠ȩ̶̡̝̪͙͖̘̾̃̌̈́̓͠ ̷͔͓̝̠̀̍h̵̭̜͕̤͖͍̎͑̈̍̑̇̚͜o̶̝̳̲͐͐̈́̈́̎͋̌͝m̶͙̩̮̜̫̏̊̿̓́̓͂̍ **e̷̛͕͉͙̖̰̖̒͌̽͂́ c̷̦̲̼̭̩̰̹̰͋̅͋̎͗̈́o̴̞͘m̵̞̱̳͑̊̀̅̍̅͒͠** ȩ̶̝̪̾̃̌̈́̓͠ ̷͔͓̝̠̀̍h̵̎͑̈o̶̝̳̲͐͐̈́̈́̎͋̌͝m̶͙̩̮̜̫̏̊̿̓́̓͂̍e̷̛̒͌̽͂́

. . .

. .

.

Far from the interstellar commotion, another discovery was made. After giving a(n allegedly retired) Warrior of Light one hell of a stomach ache, an ancient snake woke for a shard it recognized as once belonging to its creator’s. It blinked its singular, disgustingly large eye at Ardbert in a sort of _hello_ that Ardbert only half appreciated. It then slithered its way to the hole it presumably wiggled out of, thereafter heedless of the shard and his two magician friends shouting and scrambling after it. 

Leading them deep through the Labyrinth’s mostly-empty maze, it veered off into a gap just before the Tower’s golden gates. The alcove had been hidden by a golden outcropping, but was relatively easy to squeeze through as long as those venturing in were lalafells or in possession of good knees. Centuries-old runes covered the walls of its path. The scripture’s language postdated Allag -- in fact, it perfectly matched the language common to Eorzea circa year four of the Seventh Umbral Era. The only piece that didn’t match the language were two compact, swirling sigils stamped into the corner farthest from the snake, as if signatures of its creators. Sigils which none of them had before seen, but which Ardbert felt that, in his soul, he knew. After all, one had belonged to him.

At the alcove’s end, the snake curled atop a stone mound and fell into a sleep deeper than death, its job at last complete. An Allagan message had been inscribed around the base of the mound, explaining that the passageway had been added upon an Allagan sorcerer’s, Amon’s, instruction. It had been meant to aid the late emperor’s resurrection by ensuring purity and cleanliness in heart and soul, especially against Eikon corruption. It had apparently been delivered to Amon by way of _Odysseus_ , though the name was used more like a prophetic title than a real person’s. As Odysseus was also what the Allagan message called the snake, the story quickly became a little muddled. They would need an actual translator, like G’raha, to help them work out the peculiars.

The Eorzean scripture, however, made the runes’ true purpose quite plain: a spell, to purify and protect a soul from the Gods themselves.

Before them laid the culmination of two immortals’ life work. Reduced to a single, short passageway to a Tower once-forgotten, it hinged on discovery by the first true mortals they had ever met. In the inscribed spell’s potential, it held as much hope as the Tower itself.

It was jaw-dropping.

“They must have buried this in a fake guide to immortality,” Krile theorized as they all took in the runes’ meaning, “for if there is anything certain to endure across generations, it is the natural fear of death and all its unknowns.” She paused. “Striving to complete that guide -- whatever it had entailed in full -- may have contributed to the Calamities. In this time, they would be engineered by hopeful accident rather than the informed intention of your Ascians.”

That seemed uncharacteristically cruel of the Amaurotine authors, considering the strife they must have known such a guide would cause-- especially as it must have been one that worked well enough to be saved, but not well enough to actually offer what it promised. But then, what would drive the Amaurotines to such measures (and any intervening forces in interpretation) was not penned into the runes. It would require further research, if it were not lost to the ages entirely. 

The fact the passageway was lalafell-sized made Y’shtola wonder how, exactly, they had perceived their brief mortal visitors in Amaurot. Who knew? Perhaps their memories had nothing to do with it. Maybe the dimensions were due to an Allagan short-thrifting the builder budget. That was for an historian to figure out.

As a magician solely interested in the runes’ promise, Y’shtola said, amused and admiring in equal turn, “Taken simply for what it is, it holds the answer to a question asked since the first primal’s awakening.”

“Hypothetically,” Krile replied, tossing her a hopeful smile.

“It’s a-- ward against tempering?” Ardbert asked, toward the back. “Am I reading this right?”

“You are,” Y’shtola answered. Then, for Krile’s sake, she added, “Hypothetically. We’d have to test it, of course.” 

“If it is as we believe, why hadn’t the Allags used it? I distinctly recall them having trouble with primals as well.” Krile gave him a baffled look; he elaborated, “When Cahsi, G’raha and I visited Azys Lla, Emet-Selch gave us the full tour.”

“Speaking of, we still need to ensure that triad is bound properly.”

“Or we use this--?”

“Tempering isn’t the only problem a primal causes.”

“Obviously, but Cahsi said there were still living people in there with the primals, so it’s a star--”

“Y’shtola! Krile! ... Ardbert? Are you three over there?”

Startling at Tataru’s sudden call, Ardbert smacked his head on the ceiling. Rubbing his head with a low hiss, Krile patted him consolingly on the arm. Y’shtola gave them both a sigh and head-shake. In truth, her back had started hurting from having to crouch for as long as they had, so she wasn’t too sad to have to back out of the passageway. She reserved her disappointment for being taken away from the runes until she knew the cause, but considering the company of scholars she kept, she figured they’d understand if she was a little disheartened.

“Suppose we’ll have to wait on theorizing applications til after what new plight has found its way to our doorstep, hm?”

Krile hummed, patted Ardbert one last time on the arm (she hadn’t often the chance, and he did have very nice arms, Y’shtola supposed), then called back for Tataru as she led the way out of the passage, “Yes, Tataru, you’ve found us and our incredibly sized hiding spot! What brings you this way?”

“The ship! _The_ ship, with our friends! It’s just appeared out of thin air-- it brought them back out of the blue! … Unharmed, too! Isn’t that grand?!”

“So easily? Or by merely saying that, have I called an ill omen upon their heads? I hope not.” Ideas of disappointment fleeing, Y’shtola felt a smile rise unbidden upon her face as she quickly turned toward the exit-- and narrowly avoided bumping her head against the low ceiling, her ears notifying her to pull back two ilms before that tragedy. “How unlike our usual. I shan’t question it; let us give them a welcome, and see what wonders kept them.”

**. . .**

True to Tataru’s word, the ship had returned in just as fine of shape as it had left. By the time Y’shtola, Krile and Ardbert got to it, Biggs and Wedge and a few others had already made their way into the ship to investigate curious readings in the command room with Cid and Nero. Most of the other passengers had already hopped down from a side exit suspended some fifteen fulms above the fogfens’ soft, marshy grasses. Urianger, feet firmly on mostly-solid ground, had crouched down to give Ryne a tight hug, while Thancred stood a not-too-awkward half-fulm away with an expression like he really wanted to ask for one of his own. Y’shtola went to them to help the latter with welcoming back his beau (and to do a little happy welcoming back of her own, considering how... _sudden_ the departure had been).

Krile made a beeline for the twins, undoubtedly ready to verbally twist their ears over whatever nonsense they’d gotten themselves into. From her immediate questions, Y’shtola gathered that what had been a month’s absence for them was a mere day-and-some for the ship’s passengers. Despite that, they apparently had a lot to share-- though they wouldn’t get into all that, Alisaie insisted, until they’d had a bite to eat.

While she questioned them, Ardbert put his hands on his hips and gazed up to the three figures seated at the exit. Securely out of reach of ear-twisting and hugging both, they sat with their feet dangling over the edges. Under his regard, Cahsi gave Ardbert a little wave and grin. 

“Welcome back,” Ardbert called up. “You three caused quite the stir around here, disappearing like you did.”

“It was only for a day!” Cahsi protested. “Barely that, even!”

“For you, maybe!”

“It was probably more than a day,” G’raha said. 

“Why do you assume one of us are to blame?” Emet-Selch asked. “It was a joint effort between all aboard the craft.”

“Made possible through the efforts of the three before me, right?”

“Principally. But without the smallest cogs, even the largest clocks can hardly function.”

The corner of G’raha’s mouth twitched up in a tired but true smile. “Ever when it comes to fault, you’re suddenly eager to share the credit.”

“I provide credit where it is due, you mean.”

“Did I mean that? Hm...”

With the door just wide enough to seat them snugly abreast, Cahsi had her tail around G’raha’s waist, while he had his around hers. Though they both appeared in good spirits, G’raha leaned heavily against Emet-Selch’s side. Arm wound around his middle, his and Emet-Selch’s hands rested together on Emet-Selch’s hip, their fingers tightly intertwined. Ardbert accepted that particular sight without question, for G’raha looked deeply and sincerely content-- despite the fresh wetness on his face.

The realization that G’raha was actively crying gave him some pause. Ardbert did a double take, then asked, somewhat awkward (how were you supposed to react when the crying person didn’t even look like they knew they were crying?! silent tears were beyond strange to watch!), “Are you alright?” 

“Me? Ah, I see. Yes, I’m fine. More than fine.” He sniffed, wetly. At his side, Emet-Selch made a bit of a face. Ardbert wondered if his jacket had already been used as a convenient, makeshift tissue. “The tears are merely a side-effect to our efforts in achieving a successful return. Try though I might, they refuse to cease until they’ve run their course. I’ve been informed they should stop very soon.”

“Theoretically,” Emet-Selch said, “they should stop before nightfall.”

“Which I will interpret as meaning: hopefully soon, long before nightfall.”

“Always with the waterworks,” Cahsi sighed loudly, playfully nudging G’raha in the side with her elbow. “How do we know they’re not from you just being happy to be home?”

He gave a watery smile. “Should that be so, then they would be no less true.”

Emet-Selch huffed (though he looked, Ardbert thought, quietly pleased) while Cahsi groaned. 

She said, “And relentlessly poetic! Must you?” 

“What spell inspires endless tears?” Ardbert asked. “Sounds good to know to help with future avoidance.”

“It’s less of a spell, and more… an unintentional loop triggered by a particularly close aetherial connection…”

“They linked souls,” Cahsi translated. “Less like how we were with each other and Eris, more like our Echo, just dialed up to the extreme and by someone who sort of knew what he was doing.” 

Ardbert _huh_ ed.

“Despite that,” G’raha continued smoothly, “and in consequence, certain emotions were swept up into a feedback cycle that my conscious self isn’t equipped to break.”

“If I’d known you’d be as sensitive to the procedure as you are,” Emet-Selch groused, then abruptly swapped to a borderline-cheery, entirely-smug, “I would have proposed we attempt it sooner. Alas. Fumbled first times aside, have you a linkpearl on hand, Ardbert?”

“Er, yes. I tried to keep it on in case Cahsi’s came back online.”

Emet-Selch disentangled his hand from G’raha’s to hold it out, palm-side up. “Might I see it?”

“You won’t be getting it back,” Cahsi warned, though she looked more interested in what Emet-Selch had planned than Ardbert’s loss of equipment.

Ardbert tossed it up and over. While he had a good arm for throwing, Emet-Selch definitely used some magic to help it cross the distance and land perfectly in his hand.

Moving his other arm in so that he might mess with it two-handedly, G’raha made a very undignified sound as Emet-Selch basically pulled him into his lap. To Cahsi’s snickering and Ardbert’s amusement, G’raha struggled his way back out. Emet-Selch didn’t seem to notice, absorbed as he was in whatever he was doing to the linkpearl.

G’raha worked out a quick method of revenge that began with a simple pat to the back and quietly-murmured inquiry, presumably about the linkpearl. When Emet-Selch merely raised an eyebrow at him, clearly nonplussed, he cheerfully stated loud enough for others to hear, “If simply changing the frequency is all that needs to be done, and you’ve so confirmed no one is currently attempting to reach you, then perhaps we might relocate before you invest further energy and time into that delicate operation?” -- and promptly pushed Emet-Selch off their ledge and toward the ground.

His aborted shout of surprise was pretty great. Unfortunately, levitation magics caught him before he could eat dirt. 

Above, Cahsi called that cheating. G’raha agreed, then offered her a hand, still looking cheery. Once she took it, they leapt down with much more grace.

… Til their boots touched land, as then the dirt became more mud than the grass it _had_ been. They sank to their ankles, muddy brown streaking up their legs. Both yelped with surprise and dismay-- then barked out laughter, as in a moment of instantaneous karma for Emet-Selch, his little prank splattered _all_ of them with thick mud. 

Emet-Selch was quick to magic away the dirt from his robes, of course. G’raha immediately crowded into his space, apparently demanding a similar boon. Happily, the exchange seemed to have stopped his tears, though his eyes remained puffy and reddened. While they did that, Ardbert wiped a streak from his cheek and fixed Cahsi with a mockingly put-upon look.

“You managed to stay clean throughout an entire adventure to outer space, only to get dirty upon your return?”

“Now everyone will believe we went somewhere, at least. Sometimes when I’d return with a spotless wardrobe, I swear they’d question if I wasn’t really in Costa del Sol for a moon’s turn!”

He knew that feeling well. At least, “Everyone will know our next adventure won’t include any dirt or sand.”

“-- Next adventure?” G’raha’s ear swiveled to train on him a second before the rest of him followed, his muddied hems forgotten. “To overlap with our return, or of another matter entirely?”

“The latter.” Ardbert gave him a lopsided smile. “We woke up that serpent you found while hoping it would give a clue as to your whereabouts. It didn’t, clearly, but it did lead us to something interesting.” His eyes flitted to Emet-Selch, then pinned back on Cahsi. “We could give you a sneak preview, but I think you three would appreciate reading it for yourself once you have a moment to spare.”

“In gauging when we would have a moment to spare, a warning of what to expect would be appreciated,” Emet-Selch said.

“Moreover, our minds are a little frayed at the moment,” G’raha said. “A one-sentence preview would not go amiss, lest our imagination get the better of us on the way to wherever it is.”

“Well… It’s about tempering.” They stared at him. He winced. Right. Maybe more than _that_ one-sentence. “Specifically, how to ward against it. Probably even stop it.”

“... I think,” Cahsi said, slowly, “we have a free moment right now, actually.”

****

. . .

“So this is where Hythlodaeus disappeared to. I should have suspected he would follow Eris after she caught the scent of a cause worth pursuing.”

“And after having met us, knowing what they did…”

“They were both the sentimental type.”

“I would hazard to call it heroic.”

“Mm.” Emet-Selch looked to Y’shtola. “Have you attempted to use what they have left you?”

“Not just yet.”

Massive copies on bulky parchment of the passageway’s runes was laid out upon the longest table the Raising Stones had to offer. All Scions, plus their not-so-temporary additions of Emet-Selch, G’raha, Ryne and Ardbert, had gathered around it to debate the implications. After her inspections of the notes plus Y’shtola and Krile’s understanding of its meaning, Cahsi had decried it as woefully outdated and in desperate need of fixing before implementation. Emet-Selch had disagreed at once, saying it was perfectly adequate for what it was meant to do: an individual device for an individual’s warding against a primal’s influence.

It explained why the Tower had the new functions, G’raha had noted. And those functions, he admitted, worked quite well; at least insofar as the initial test subject, Emet-Selch, went.

Y’shtola pointed out then that it would be best if G’raha elaborate on everything he and Emet-Selch had gotten up to in their experimental magics within the Tower, as that seemed like a big one not to share.

G’raha had shaken his head, instantly contrite. “I hadn’t thought it-- it was to ward Hydaelyn’s presence from an untempered soul. I hadn’t imagined it would have any impact on a soul already bound to a primal’s will.”

“Do we know that it does?” Thancred asked. “Who has been there since you’ve changed its wards?”

“... Only Emet-Selch and I. Ryne had visited before, but not after.”

“Then--” he began, then stopped. His gaze had turned unwillingly toward Ryne, whose eyes were fixated on the scrolls bearing the warding. 

“Mayhaps we best test what hast already met success,” Urianger said, smoothly covering for Thancred’s hesitation, “and journey forthwith to thy Crystal Tower which we, for a time, called shelter.”

“I don’t know…”

The speaker backed up from the table, her hands clasped tight in front of her.

Though a few around the table tensed along with her, Urianger asked, “What causes thee to waver? The spell laying before thine eyes?”

She shook her head, paused and frowned, then shook her head again.

“I know we’re tempered.” Thancred opened his mouth to protest, but Ryne firmed her expression and pushed through. “But some of us are more than that. As Hydaelyn’s Oracle, what comes of me if I were removed entirely from Her presence?” Another pause. “Most in this timeline follow and believe in the Mothercrystal. Without Her--”

“-- With too much forethinking, we might as well again travel _forwards_ through time.” Y’shtola interrupted. “This spell is for the individual. Let us engage on that level first and foremost before we start in on an entire Star’s worth.”

“The individual here being us as a group, of course?” Krile asked, warmly.

“Of course,” Y’shtola agreed. “If there is another group of individuals better suited, please, I would be happy to meet them.”

“We did meet them,” Krile said, motioning toward their not-so-temporary members, “and here they are.”

“-- Plus, if nothing changes for us within the Tower, we can try the spell there.” Cahsi said. She looked a little reluctant, too, and a whole lot suspicious, but it seemed like she’d steeled herself into accepting what they needed to do. Nothing would sway the Warrior of Light when she had her mind set to a task. “There’s no shortage of aether crystals to bolster it with there.”

“It appears we are all in agreement.” Y’shtola began gathering up the scrolls. “Then, let us depart.”

Ryne remained rooted in spot until Alisaie and Alphinaud, along with Urianger’s soft encouragement and Thancred’s unwavering presence, all but took her elbows in hand and nudged her forward. Still she seemed to fight for the will to continue, every step plagued by a different internal demon (only half of which she gave any voice to).

In the back of the group next to Ardbert and Emet-Selch, G’raha flexed his crystal hand, then squeezed his fingers into his palm. The crystal showed no indication of the pressure. If the Tower was needed to power the warding, then likely it would resume its taking from his body.

… And so it would have to, if that was what was called for. 

The two at his sides didn’t mention his distraction. That was for the best; after all, what he would give to help those around him had long been a foregone conclusion.

At the Tower’s royally inscribed gate, Ryne stopped dead. 

Urianger and Thancred stopped with her. Emet-Selch noticed but, understanding better than most, continued within without comment. Of the others, they noted the change only once more than five paces within.

“What ails thee?” Urianger asked her.

She shook her head, struck by the same voiceless hesitation as she had before. 

Acting on impulse, Cahsi retraced the gap between them and reached to take her hand.

The moment they touched, she dropped it to clutch at her head. Stumbling back a step, Ryne did the same, both struck by pain the likes of which all gathered had witnessed before.

“-- The Echo, now?”

“As I stand, it is perhaps a calling more targeted!” Krile said. “Catch them before they fall!”

A second from _too late_ , Thancred caught and steadied a Ryne that looked to be on the cusp of unconsciousness. Ardbert moved to do the same for Cahsi, only to be stopped by a serious-looking Y’shtola. While he protested her halting him, Urianger and G’raha grabbed Cahsi’s shoulders.

Both were unresponsive to touch and speech, though their eyes moved restlessly behind cracked-open eyelids.

Y’shtola told Ardbert, pitching her voice for all to hear, “Whether you cross that threshold and fall to Hydaelyn’s voice or not, you’ve helped proved true our hypothesis about the warding; but, as we have no idea what they are experiencing until they return to tell us, I’d rather you stay awake and upright.”

“Ryne might have had a point,” Alisaie said, tone grave and expression steeled for the worst. “If removing Hydaelyn renders her like Ga Bu, then for what are these measures worth?”

“Pull them fully into the warding’s protection,” Emet-Selch said, “and you might find your answer.”

“This is no light matter to play at--”

“It is your opinion that will not backfire horribly?” Y’shtola asked him.

“If it does, blame will not put their ruined minds at ease,” he replied, apparently sincere, “but it may help yours, and I would accept it without question.”

An almost tangible hesitation followed (though for Urianger and G’raha, it was more to gauge the other’s reactions). Ardbert broke it with a resolute, “What are you all waiting for? You heard him. Bring them in.”

**. . .**

Once they did, the two fell into a still, silent sleep.

They propped them gently against the Ocular’s wall and watched with bated breath. Krile and Urianger checked their aether. Though to their knowledge and Y’shtola’s specialized senses, they appeared just fine, they did not wake.

G’raha, feeling all his memories’ years, stood a solemn vigil at their feet. A few paces away, Thancred paced a ditch into the Ocular’s floor.

“Perhaps an individualized warding would grant them the strength to wake?” Y’shtola hazarded. “Entering the Tower properly has caused some change.”

“It’s worth a try,” G’raha agreed, quietly. “What does the spell call for?”

Much, it turned out. Two types of aethersand, three rare plants, two extinct plants, and a crystal capable of acting as a long-term anchor for its wearer. The crystal could not stray far from the individual being warded, lest its spell weaken enough for a primal’s influence to return and sway the wearer into destroying their charm. That had, apparently, been a problem for the original inventors. Likewise-- though the warning meant nothing to the mortals-- the ingredients had to be cultivated, not Created, and the spell cast through a combination of Star-bound elemental and inherent aether.

The two extinct plants weren’t, if G’raha’s memory served correctly, extinct to the First. He theorized the rare aethersand and plants could also be more common to other Shards, considering the variances in core elements between them.

Ideally the bridges between the Shards would allow all of them to venture forth and collect the necessary ingredients, but they hadn’t the inclination to take the time required for that. While Ryne and Cahsi could be set to stasis within the Tower, it made all of them feel queasy to imagine. Just as that realization sank in, Emet-Selch offered to fetch the ingredients.

Upon a condition.

Most of those gathered tensed. Of the two that didn’t, G’raha and Krile turned keen eyes to Emet-Selch.

“-- Name it,” Thancred said between grit teeth. “Since it is just as expected.”

“Do not posture so. You know that I would need something in return is a rarity.”

“This time varies, why?”

“I’ve made contact with the remnants of my people. That’s what mysterious world our ship ventured to.”

“The remnants--?”

“The particularities may be discussed after we’ve reached an agreement for the present situation.” Without letting them respond, he continued, “I’ll fetch the ingredients necessary for these two. If the individualized ward works, I’ll fetch enough for twenty-eight more.”

“... That is how many Unsundered yet live.” G’raha said, to fill in the context and also-- more baffled, “Wait a moment, is that truly all you ask?”

Indignantly, he replied, “Until there is something more important for me to prioritize, which I currently cannot see happening.”

“That’s not a condition, you dramatic old coot,” he exclaimed, turning on a heel to make sure Emet-Selch saw just how ridiculous he thought the exchange, “but a freely given request! Yes, Gods willing it be that easy, go and fetch the ingredients for thirty casts; no, make it thirty-one, so you might join their number. We will prepare a space to begin immediately upon your return.”

Emet-Selch gave him a strange look, then directed it toward the others. As each met his look with equally shocked, _had you doubted our good will?_ expressions (combined with varying degrees of affront), it seemed to occur to him only then that they truly meant to help him and his without further question.

That resulted in a realization of comraderie that Emet-Selch clearly had no idea what to do with, and so he soon departed. 

Once he had, as promised, Y’shtola rallied them to begin preparations. Before they did, Krile bid them to relocate Ryne and Cahsi somewhere vaguely more comfortable. G’raha, happy to distract himself from the warmth in his stomach over the others' easy support of Emet-Selch, raced into the Tower with Thancred and Ardbert to fetch the same makeshift bedrolls they had used when they had been stuck in Amaurot.

. . .

.̶ ̶.̸ ̷.̵

.̵͈͍̠̉ ̸̝͖̅.̴̢̩͒ ̴̙̈́͛͠.̴̼̘͔̈

.̷̡̫̭̲̻͔̠̮̩̆̑ ̴͍̯͇͖̖͒̇̋̆͂̈́̆.̸̱̬̺͔̹͔͆̊̈́͆̔̿̌̔̑͂͝ ̵̢̧̼͂̿̈̿͂.̷̨͌͛͑͒̑͠

. .̴̩͒ .̴̼̘̈ .

. . **you** wo.̴̯̤͈̺̑̓͆͋͑̋̿͠ ̵u̶̍́l̵̐d . . .

l . . ea ve me . . .?

“We were never yours to begin with.”

The light burned bright enough to block out the once-familiar starscape. Though this universe had seen as many Rejoinings as the one Cahsi grew up in, Hydaelyn fared no worse for it. Unchallenged devotion from those across her Star had kept her well-fed. Even were every Shard to Rejoin the Source, she had the means and drive to continue the cycle of clean rebirths for her followers. At the moment, faced with two once-loyal champions -- her Chosen, her Oracle -- bottomless disappointment radiated from every ilm of her space. It overwhelmed, pulling and begging for them to just _hear_ her. That they would feel her sincerity. That they would think better than they were--

Stubborn to the last, Cahsi clutched Ryne close and _refused_ Hydaelyn’s requests. Ryne’s form felt insubstantial and weak in her hands. She could not stand under her own power. 

Following the first’s sacrifice, generations of Minfilia had devoted themselves to carrying out Hydaelyn’s Word. That she held herself separately at all, especially in the Mothercrystal’s very presence, gave Cahsi some of the hope she sorely needed, because she really wasn’t too sure how they were getting out of this one under their own power.

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how she was still standing. It felt like she’d been made into a Lightwarden again in an instant, her soul fit to burst apart under Hydaelyn’s conviction.

 **You made yourselves mi** ne.

“Perhaps once, but now--”

You would leave me.

“Yes, we would! The world has moved beyond the need for primals.”

How will **y o u** be **Safe?**

“We’re more safe without you.”

No.

You do not know that.

“... Then we’ll find out how to be.”

That question leads only to my Light.

“We have seen what too much Light has caused--”

Beloved… children…

The light around them began to recede. Cahsi hardly noticed, distracted with how her hands began to _truly_ phase through Ryne’s form. In the end, _in a blink,_ she was left to grasp at air.

That was probably the point she began to truly panic.

Hydaelyn, ever persistent, serenely promised:

I will make you Safe. You, and them… 

“We-- we-”

Looking up at last from where Ryne had been, Cahsi saw how the light gathered and pulsed within Hydaelyn. How it glittered and guttered, roiled and lashed-- a wave, gathering force to crash upon her- a sight her soul recognized and trembled before. The rest of her remembered of the sundering, but she knew-- she’d been so close to an answer. An escape from the consequences of mistakes repeated. Then and now.

Her and them.

You and them.

Worry not, my Blessed. I will a̴i̶d̶ you ǎ̴̘͚̭̯̄͐̕͠l̷̡̜̻̖̊̆͑͗l.̵͍̱̠̾ 

I wil̸̮͈̍̓̈́l̶̹̩̇̑̍̃̈́ ̵͉͛͐́͌͌ ̷͖̳̖̙͊̉f̷̙̹͂̈́ͅỉ̶̟͊̓͝n̸̦̽̌͘d̸̘̎̌̚ ̸̧͔̰̗̦̆̎̈͝y̸̗̘͖̗̦̆̈́̈́ơ̷͚̰̻̫̄́ü̷̖͕̼̥̭̇̽̆ ̷̥̝̀̊͆̾̐͜ǎ̴͎͓̟̈̔g̶̯̰̦͈̬͝a̴̮̫̿i̴̱̖̮̐̚n̵͕̮̣̽̏̌͜͠ͅ. 

T̵̛͖̮͓̩͓͎͉͙͕͍̯̖̆̎̈́̇̉͒̎̈́̓̓̈́͆͆̾͝͠h̵̬͕͙̻̮͕̰̟̙̲͐͊͌̂̂̑̅̇̃̋͝i̸̧̦͉̦̬͖̤̊̈́̈́͑̒̎͆̽̒́͘s̵̝̙̗̥̼̥͕͕̮̋̈́̈́̈́̓͊̑̏̿͗͠ͅͅ ̴̛̟̌̄̿̂̑̊͆͌͆͝i̸͔̤̩̯̥͔͖͎̒̓̀̃̄̍͐̅̐s̴̨͉̱̬̞̰̒̓̈́̉̈́͐͂̃̑̓̀͒̕̕̕͝ ̴͇̎̈̒̈́̀͆̍̈̓̍̔́͠n̸̡̲̪̝̮̲̲̣͛̍̈́̆̾̓͆͊̾̈̌̕̚o̸͈͑̉̂̊̒̃͊̅͌͋̕͠t̵̟͍̪̲̞͓͓̺̤̞̦̦͍̤͋̋͑̃̍̅̈́͂̋̋̃̍̾͠͝͠͝ ̵̡̨̲̪̣͍͖̩̰͍͉̙̖͎̭̱̝͇̀̃͒͛̋̑͑ͅͅţ̴̨̰͖̬͖̹̩̞͇̦̦̥̯̠̬̦̮̿̆̊̌̂̋̊̈́̈́h̵̛͔͔̜̜̝͇̱͔̯͖̩͚̠́̐̓̏̽̈̉̂͒̏̂̉͆̕e̷̜̓ ̸̝͚̎̒̆e̵̜͚̓̓̈̐̒̉͋̃̒̓̃n̵̤̤̹͕̭͔͕̝̟̾̈́̃̇̎̏̇d̵̛͍̫̫̩̭̤̂̎͌̌̎̊̎̐̒̓͊̈́̐̋̂̚̚͜͝

“-- Wait! Hydaelyn!”

Y̷͖̒̀̓o̷̘̙̫̭̘̖̠̜͌̔͗̍̾̌̔͆͜ư̸̧̦͎̥͓̼͙̤̬̮̆̓̇́̆̈́̏͐̋͐̌ ̴̛̛̙͉̦͍̟̥̙̼̹̑̀̓̾͂̾̑̾̑̆̃͑̿̚͠ͅw̸̢̫͔̯̖̦̬̺̳̙͇͑̐̂̒̃̄͌̆͑̈͌̄͂̔̾̄̐̚͝ḯ̷̧͓͖̤̹̈ľ̵̡̲̞̘̺̪̯̪̰͌̾̋͒͊̀̃̍̎̄̂̑̂́͠͠ͅļ̷̡̡̟̤̣̣͚̩̼̄͐͗͑̉̓̈́͊͆̈́ͅ ̷̨̡̧̠͎͚̩̰̝̺̻͓͙̤̣̹̜̗̪͌̾̔͗̾̍̚r̵̭̟̘͓̯̣̩͗ę̶͎̜̺̥͔͖͓̮̤̓͒̅̍̔̾̈̇̑̾̎̚̕͠ͅt̷̗̣̥̗̘̦͌̿̔͐̏̿̆̿̈́̋̏̈͘͝u̴͙̗̼̅̊͋̐ŗ̵̛̩̘̳̖̞͚̩̠̭͕͎̠̺̲͍̟͌̄̏͆̿̆͆̇̿̒̋n̴͕̣͚̯̻͇͎̱̙̯͆̈́̉̅̓ ̶̪̼͓̈̂́̔́͐̿̊̾͑̚͝t̴̢̗̙̻͔̜̳̟͓͉̱͕̲͛̐͊̋̈́̀̑̒̈̎̂͑̓̕͜͝͝ő̵͇̞͇̣̖̲͕̮͎̱̫̅͜͜͜ ̶̡̨͔̪͍̮̤̪̘̘̀̅̋̄̅́͌̊͊̎̍̂̕m̶̡̡̧̛͔̻͕̮̩̯͇͙̪̖̺̤̺̅̋̔̉͆̎͝͠ͅë̵̡̩͙̬̹͉̪̬

“They don’t need you anymore!”  
̶͙͓͌̌̽̅͗͌̋  
̴̨̹̘̙̯͍̝̉̏̇̽̈́̔̐̏̊͛̉͑͜͜ͅă̷̛̖̝̎͐̾̓̃̿͆̉̽͗̈́͌̊̎̆̓n̸̢̢̖̪̤͚̙͈̣̙̖͓̫̬̹̻͋̾̎̿̏͂͝͝͠ͅď̷̢̞̼̟̳̟̠̦̰̟̦̜͓̪͉͕̘͚͙̼̈́͑̌̀̒̌̈

we̵̡̗̠͖͌̏͌̚ ̶̗̦̈́̊̽͜͝w̵̢̜̜̪̥̄̃i̷͉̠̥͊͆͑͘l̶̤̪̝͓͌l̶͚͛̓̆͋́ ̷̜̎̂ě̸͖̰̱̺̿ **ṅ̴̠̥d̸͉̳͇͑̏̽̈u̷̗̟͈͔̅r̵̡̜̍̏̉e̴̺̍̄̿͒̇ͅ.̶̧̺̼̐̐̋̄**

̸͖͇̤͉̘͍͚̞̩͖̳̥̯͕̉̄̿̍̔͝T̶̛̻̹͚̱̬̘̱̺̠̼̳͔̿̈́̓͐̉̓͝o̸̟̻̺̝̗̊̑̀̓͒̆̐̾̂͗́̎̌̅̔̒̕̚̕͜͝g̶̡̡͔̻͔̰͖̦̬͉͍͔̬͚̫͐̒̎̆̈͝ͅͅͅe̷̡̧̛͉̱̺̩̞͓͙̬͂̏̎͒́́̍̂͂t̶̨̢̧̤͙͔̜̦̰̭̩̠̞̙̘͍̦͎͔͑̂͐͐̒͂̽h̵̰͖̦͖̝̤͎͈͖̬̬̭̬̩̳̱̺̤̒̒̈́̚ͅe̸̦͉̖̼̰̳̲̮̙̦̓͠r̸̨̛̞̝̳̹̦̙̥̣̪̲̦̿͑͛̄̾̊̔̇͆͗̾̽͆̈́̅͐͑ͅ

ț̵̡̡͓͕̰̻͕̣͍͔͚̳̻͎̙͒̐̃̓̆̇̑̄o̴̧̜̤̣̽̿g̵̛̰̯̥̲̞͍̝͎͕̈́̈́͐̍͛̂͘̕͝ë̷̛̗͔̦̻̜́̂͂͒̓͐̌̾̔̄̐͐͂͝t̵̲̏̉͗̍̏h̶̢̡̩̱̯̣͒̾̔̂̌̈́͛̋̚͝͠e̵̹̘̼͕͓̥͉̣͎̫̘͕̟̗̙͗̓̈́̂̎͐̇̃̏̂̑͋͘͜͝r̶̭͚͎̯̬͔̻̗̦̲͕̺̬̘̃̓̈́̐̐̐͋͝ͅ ̷̡͉͕̦͚̲̙͍͇͙̞͔̳͎̇͜͜t̴̘̞̭̭̳̼̟̳̼̱͚̱̜̄͗͗ͅơ̵̰̜̲̗̬̮͓̯̜̐̈́͐̾̓̾͆̉͛͑̂̑̾͊͐͝ͅg̶̛̰̝͎͍̙̙̥̫̅͛̂̑̒̾̉̆̄ȩ̴̰͓̻͖̘͈̜̥͎͎̻̞̘̯̪̙̗͊̔̌͜t̸̘̲̭͚̠̭̺́̀̎͆̎̏͜͠h̶̞̲̱̮̝̯̝̫̻̮̪̖̯̜̃̒̊̑̆̔̒̋̈́̃̉̑̊͐̚͘̚͜͠͝ĕ̸̡̢̨̘͎̪̞̣̣̯̝̖̮̯̻͜r̴̼̽͘ ̷̧͇̼͇̠͔̲̞̩̹͔̣̭̲̊̋͑͒̐̾̿͒̀̍̽̀͐̏̽̉͒͊͘͜͜ͅť̸̙̳̏̋̑̍̌͠ơ̷̜͇͛͒̋̊̄̃͐͐̏g̵̱͎͎͚̰͙̹̝̊̈́̈̅̑͐̓̆͗͆͊̏̌̒̿̕͝ȩ̷̛̻͉͕̪̈́̾̎̄͆́͗͐͑̐͜t̴̨̨̲̟̥̺͙̜̲̬͈͎̲̦͓̏̂̈́͂͊̏̚͜͝͠ḣ̸̻̃̆̽́̅̑͛̆͐̽̈́̓̽͑͆̓̚͠e̵̡̦̹̺̙̯̍̇̓̏̏̈́̋̓̎̿̈́͂͊̃̕͠r̴̡̛̤̣̞͍̾͑̉̋̐̊̌̔̾̈͘ ̷͖̤̜͈͓͕͐͗̍̃͌͌̏̽̅̊̓͘̚̚ͅs̸̡̛̘̣̰̟̪̹̙͕͚͙̯̔́̔͐͂͒̂̎̌͒̉͂̕͝͠ą̴̡̡̡̹͍͇͚̠̪̞̖͚̓̿͂̿̃̄͒̽̈́̀̕͜f̴̢̲̖̫̙̣̳̱̑͋͗ͅę̵̊͑̏͗̓̉̌̃̏͘͠ ̸̨̢̟̬̰̬̭̙̦̹͎̟̠͎̱͚̘̳̓̓͆̐͘ţ̷̧͍̺̳͉̣̺̞̤͔̠̆̾̓̃̿̓̿͆̉͒̇͗̐̎̕̕͘ő̸̡̳̞̥͔̤͓͔̟͕̬̺̩̙̤͓̰̌̏̿̓́͛̚͜͜g̵͙͎̭͍͎̭͍̺̰̈͌͘ḛ̵̗̜̱̝̳͍̼̗̞͉͚͙̙͔ţ̶̺͉̅͊͗̾͂̒̄̐̌̾̇͠͝͠h̸̢̡͉̤͔͍̘̯̞̝͎̣́̍̉̾e̸̡̦̖̖̝̜̲̼̊̿̔̈́r̸̥̹̀͗̆̍͑͂̊̂̽̈́̚̕͝ ̶̛̘̘̹̟͖̆̄̿̐̇̈́̑̍̉̅̒̄͝ͅt̴̛̞̗̖̬̼̠͎̥̭̥̤̰̩̿̎͐͜͝ͅö̸̧̜̺̦͔̯̹́́̈͌͊̍̎̌̈́͌̃̕g̶̨̢̞̠͉̩̝̞̪̪͐̍ę̶̦̪̞̺̦̹͉̳̲̬̌̓̾̄̈́̕͝ͅt̷̢̛͔̩̭̖̱̤̹̺̥̘̮̲͕̉͗͊͗̿͊͂͊̂̎̆͊̐̾͝h̸̡̛͙͖̱͖̲̻̒̾̊͊̽͑̎͘͜e̶̡͓̮̤̔͜ͅŗ̶̥̜̲͉͔̗̙͚͔̺̳̳͔̈́̃̽͋̃͛͌̓̒͆̔̌͛̍̽̽͘͜͠ ̶̡̳̦̺͚͖̤͉̗̘̟̺̃̾͂̀̄̈̄͐͒̎́̎̈̑̿̂̾͌͘͜͜w̵̡̢͍̤͕̪̲̥̫̙̮̹̠͓̹̽̑͊̌̚͜͜ė̷̘̂̓̓͐̈̓͛̏̈́̄̋͆̀̚̕ ̴̨͍̭̰̪̘̦̈́̉̀̿͐͒͒̕͘͘͜͝ͅâ̷̹͈͔̥̱͖̄͋̄͑̏̋̉̀̓̓̋̒̚̕͝r̷̗̺̖̼̼͇̬͋̂̓̄͋͌͂̑͗̏͐̈́̑́̒̾͂̓͝e̴͕̤̦̫̤̠̣̳̦̱͈̜̹̖̬̬͈͉̓̅͋͛̄̃̈́̉̾̈͛͐͊͒̋̎͘͘ͅͅ ̴̡̹͕̞͍̝̜̠̙̠͜ͅS̵̜͈̱̜̺̜̮̻̋̂̉̆͊̃̄͐̒̽̿̀̈̃͌̿͠͝ͅå̴̢̢̦̭͎̰͖͚̼̳͎̻̭̏̎̽͂͌̃̿͗̾̆̋͋̊̅͑͑͆͝f̸͖̈́͋̓̉̏̅͂̎͐̔̈͌͗̕̚̚͝ȩ̵̳̼͓͔͍̫̭͍͉̦͆̅͂̕͜͜ ̸̳̰̫͔͙̀͑̊̄̏̽̈́̊͋͐͠r̶̠͈̖̅͆e̵̡̧̨̛͕͇̻͇͍͓̖̥̩̦̲͍͆͠t̴̨̢̢̧̡̳̻͇̱̫͇͎̹̹̹̝͖̭̐̀̍̏̽̐̒͆͋͋̈̑̈͂͂̚ư̴̧̹̪͔̘̻̘͓̫̬͌̄͂̓̏̃̓̉͆͛̍͘͘r̸̡̞̩̰̳͍̮̭͔̼̺͓̩̮̜̹͈͂͆̚ͅn̶̢̳͖̗͓̖̾̐͊̊̔̓̂̈͝ ̴̧̢̠̻̳͓͈̰̬͍̹͙̲̜̜̫̻̘̯̿̿̆̓̇̒͗̐̈́̒̕͜͠t̸̘̙̝͜ͅó̷̢̧̗̰̙̜̪͇̤̲̻̊͋̒͌̍ͅ ̸̨̢̤͎̦̝̝͓̜̹̘̜̠̊̋̓̈́̒͆̎͘̚͝m̵̢̨̹̥̬͕̬̮̻̯̦̼̼̦͆̉͑̍̈̂̃͆͌̒̊̕̚͝͝͝͝ę̵̢̢̜̫̝̲̤̲̩͈̪̗̠͎̞̦̱͖̯̈́̓̏̑̍͋̔͋͊̈̀͋̆͆̒̚͝ ̴̡̡̢̠̮̱̼͎͍̻̹͌̂͠͝

t̶̹̖͈̺́̽͌̔̊̔̃͐͌̌͂͘̚͝ỏ̷̢̻̤͈͕͉̮̠̰͙̹͖͇̩͒́̾̄̓̓̌̒͘ͅģ̵̯̼̜̦̈̔̽̃̌ẽ̵̻̬̞̣̺̿͑͊͂̄͘t̸͔̺̱̭̜̣̻̣̭̣̝̪̯̰̱̳̰̿͐̈́̌̓͑̈́͜͝ḩ̸͉̙̗̦͓̝̟͇͇͉͑̑e̷̯̗̫͒̉͂͒͂̃̈̇͆̏̿̍̃͊̂͑̈́̚̕ͅr̷̨͇̲̭͍͙̼͇̍̌͗̆̄̐̃̐͜͝ ̶̨̢̳̞̟͈̪̰̣̘̩̩̠̲̅͛̀̇̐̏̇̎̄̌̇̈̇̄̚̕ͅw̴̢͎͒͑͑̽͊̑̇͂͋͂̂̿͛̆̆̎̄̿e̴̱̻͍̖̬͎̫͇͖̘̲̯͔͎͗̀̈͛̋̐̊̅͋̄̃̿͛̂͘͝ ̶̨̞͖̜͈͗̈́̑̄e̷̳̝̩͈͉̘̲̙͕͔̜̤̠̽͂̈́̈̋̇̍͊͜ͅṇ̷̡̧̧͉̠̟̻̹̖͔͗͒͒͒̉͆͌̕͝͠ḏ̵̡̈̊́u̴̢̧̩͈̙̥̯̩̝͆̓̅̎̍̃͠ȑ̴̛̝͓̥̟̈́́̇͂͋̽͗̐̅̑̐̈͛͒̕͜͝e̴̢̢̛͎̤̍͐̈́͒̂͆̍̈̕͝ͅ

. . .

.̵ c̴̲̯̮̣͚̲̮̖̝̺͈̱͚̗̘̹͉̙͋̔̆̈́͛̒̔͠o̷̧̭̟͓̜̗͈͇͈̳̙̩̯̻̐̃͂m̸̯̣̔̋͆͋̉̆͛̄̑̌̇̇̚͘͝͝ê̴̡̢̙̱̝̻͔̠̬̫̣̲̼̹̱̮̆̍̐̂͝ ̸̡̢̛͈̩̺͙̼̗̼̫̊̐͑̉̓͊̓́͆̓̌͒͗̑̐͘͝ḧ̶͍̼̪̗̥̪̖͕̟̜́̔̉̈́͋̇̄̃͂̊̂͛̌̃̈̅͝͝͝õ̷̢̹̖̪̹͎͊͒̅̌̒͗̔̊͌̊͐̔͜͝͝͠m̷̨̧̧̢̬̣̹͕̰̻͉͖͍̠̪̰͎͎̻͌̐̌̓̐̓̈ͅě̶̡̨̥̤͙̙̣͚͙̩̱͖̼̗̮̤̥̻̯̺̏͗ .̵ ̶.̵ ̷.̴

. . .

“. . . o m̷̨̧̧̬̣̹͕̰̻͉͌̐̌̓̐̓̈ͅě̶̥̤͙̏͗ ?”

The Light was blinding…

"--ne?"

Her foremothers had sacrificed themselves just the same. Did they also feel such trepidation?

“She’s waking up!”

She’d rather not be, actually, for waking up invited the ache in her head to increase. It took root behind her eyes, thrumming a terrible tempo through her whole body.

Though her heart ran fast as a rabbit’s, she suddenly couldn’t fathom why.

“Ryne…”

For what had she to fear when that was Thancred (and so, likely, the others too) by her side? Except he sounded oddly emotional, and she was likely the cause. She hated to be the cause, but also, she’d hate to miss the relief when he realized things were fine. Ever since they returned from Amaurot, he’d had more and more moments like that, where his tension dissipated for an honest smile.

After she forced her eyes open and the red-yellow-white spots cleared enough that she might focus on his hovering, undeniably concerned face, she saw the sight she’d hoped for: his relief, sincere and instant.

She tried to smile back. By how his expression softened, she managed it.

He pointed to a necklace with a small, off-white crystal. It turned out to be a new necklace for her, apparently, as it was around her neck and also he told her, “You’re never allowed to take this off. Got it?”

“Um…” She faltered, scrambled for words despite the headache. In the end, all she could scrounge up was, “Okay. Why?” 

She really hoped he did better than ‘because I said so.’ Miraculously, he did. He explained it kept her from Hydaelyn’s presence, which sparked a hazy memory about discussing a new kind of warding before they’d taken a trip to the Tower to see something G’raha had made. At its gate, she’d-- passed out? She couldn’t really remember. 

She admitted as much when he inquired why she looked so confused. That was, he said, an unexpected drawback. They’d have to go through past events and make sure she hadn’t forgotten too much. While forgetting anything was startlingly bad, at least she had the others around and willing to revisit what she’d potentially lost.

It was around then that she realized to her left, Ardbert, G’raha, and Emet-Selch were treating Cahsi to the same attention that Thancred was to her. By the sounds of Cahsi’s annoyed _I did what?! -- And that’s why I can’t take this off? But it’s so garrish!_ they weren’t being as gentle about it. 

At the doorway Urianger and Alisaie soon appeared. Alisaie welcomed them both back, giving them one of her warmest smiles before settling herself very close to Ryne’s side and launching into a stream of questions about how she felt. Happily, she gave plenty of time for Ryne to answer each quite thoroughly. Urianger bid a stately welcome back to Cahsi and Ryne, informed Emet-Selch that Y’shtola and Krile were ready to begin on the next batch once he’d collected the requisite ingredients, and then went to Ryne’s side to begin his own form of oddly emotional hovering.

According to him, Alphinaud, Y’shtola and Krile sent their warm regards, and hoped to speak with them soon. They wanted to help Emet-Selch’s friends -- Amaurotines who had survived in the Rift -- first and foremost. Urianger, Alisaie and G’raha were next in line to continue the ward-weaving once those three had exhausted their magics for the day. Cahsi asked when she might join, to which Ardbert reminded her that she was currently proof in concept and shouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it-- so, once her head stopped trying to kill her, he thought she and he were more useful in traveling to the First to collect relevant ingredients there. That sounded fine to her, she said.

Though it caused her headache to reinvigorate itself, Ryne couldn’t help but comment:

“They’ve come home.”

Thancred and Urianger both paused and looked to Ryne. She blinked back at them.

“The ancients? In a sense of it,” Thancred agreed with a bemused pinch to his brow, “though I hope they don’t ever see a need to return the Source to how it had been. I’d hate for the immortal to be right about the ceaseless repetition of history. He would be unbearably smug about it.”

“They haven’t the stomach for it,” Emet-Selch said, “and barring more comments to that insufferable degree, neither does ‘he.’”

“-- You’re still here? Shouldn’t you be collecting?”

“The prime Shard for the required aethersand is currently crawling at a half-blink for every year here.” He sniffed. “I haven’t a need to rush. I’ve contacted Elidibus about our findings here. While a few have demonstrated interest in the wards, more are resistant.”

“And all are annoyed at you again depriving them of their missing ship, not to mention how you ruined their docking bay in the process,” G’raha said, “as well as failing to stop and say hello, and also leaving a potentially corrupted linkpearl in their halls--”

While Ardbert shook his head with amusement, Cahsi barked out a laugh. “How long was I out for, again? That’s an awful lot for you to complain about in less than a week, Emet-Selch! About something you’ve plenty of cause to be pretty happy about, too.”

“I see I would be better served to take greater care before updating you on matters of importance,” he grumbled at G’raha, sneering without any malice. For his part, G’raha merely shrugged and smiled an oh-so-innocent, _what, did I share too much_ smile.

Cahsi thumped him on the arm. He turned a scowl on her.

“If the aethersand’s giving you trouble, want to join Ardbert and me on the First? I’m feeling well enough to stretch my legs.”

“Thou must remain at rest til thrice tolls the bell,” Urianger cut in.

She looked at him, confused. “ _Three bells?_ I don’t remember that being in Eris and Hythlodaeus’ warnings.”

“That wouldst be because it hails from mine own divination.”

She groaned and flopped her head back against the pillow. “But that’s so long! I feel fine! Don’t you feel fine, Ryne?”

“I wouldn’t mind another bell’s nap, actually…”

“Aw, c’mon! You’re supposed to back me up!”

Covering her mouth with a hand (though even if Cahsi heard, she certainly wouldn’t have disproved), Ryne giggled. 

“We’d best strengthen the bridges between Shards,” G’raha said then. “There was cause before, of course, but now… If we could spread the word about effective wards against tempering, think of the strife it might save entire Stars. -- That brings to mind. Hades. Might Elidibus be willing to share the technology for crossing the Rift through mechanical craft?”

“If he is not, and I suspect he very much is not,” Emet-Selch said, after a slight but notable pause, especially in the sudden, interested quiet of the room, “I will work to persuade him otherwise.”

G’raha’s ears flicked to and fro with happy intrigue. “That would be ideal. Should it arise I may be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to inform me.”

“I daresay most here wouldst freely offer the same,” Urianger added, to which Cahsi and Ardbert and Thancred, combined with a shrug, nodded.

Alisaie gave her agreement, then murmured underbreath, “Is ‘Hades’ what we should be using now…?” 

Apparently just realizing the implications himself, Thancred shot her a sharp look. Hoping those at her bedside were the only ones to catch it -- grateful then that Emet-Selch rarely acknowledged what he didn’t want to, rather, and that G’raha did the same when he felt caught-out -- Ryne laid a hand on her knee to grab her attention and stall her and any other’s questions until another time. It seemed like a name to be invited into using (and _not_ just before a harrowing battle of life and death), like G’raha’s had been. If she read the room right, they weren’t too far off from that.

It was a nice thought. As it’d be even better without a headache chasing it, Ryne rested her head upon her pillow (it was, she then noticed, the same she had used in Amaurot) and let the others’ easy chatter wash over her.

**. . .**

“You know, G’raha, it’s very interesting. Just yesterday, Emet-Selch delivered far more components than would be necessary for one or two more warding spells, but not near enough for us to begin offering protection to the general population.”

“Considering the potential reaction from the general population regarding news that Hydaelyn is not only a primal, but one we would want to ward _against_ , I had thought we agreed not to release the news just yet--”

“Oh, we did. Just as we agreed that wards won’t solve the underlying causes to beast tribes summoning primals, though I continue to hope that we might soon offer it to the more independent factions.”

Sensing a lingering question in the air, G’raha hesitated at the other end of the spell table and, presumably, looked toward her. Two baskets’ worth of the aforementioned deliveries, all rare and valuable beyond fathoming, sat at one end. The massive, meandering scroll containing annotated directions in crafting the wards laid between them, its sketched diagrams working in a pinch as a focus point. Finally, on the room’s sole windowsill, four tiny dirt-filled jars contained the purple sprouts of the necessary plant. Though long extinct on the Source, Emet-Selch had dropped them off with a vague comment about using what they needed and then taking the spare seeds to repopulate their numbers in their original habitat, which would be somewhere near Gridania. He’d then teleported away to continue his hunt across the Shards for more ingredients, leaving the spell-makers to spell make.

He hadn’t left without giving G’raha a heavy pat upon the shoulder while lingering too-long and too-close, which Y’shtola privately raised an eyebrow at.

Even prior to the ship’s abrupt disappearing act, they’d acted fairly familiar with one another. Upon its return, their closeness had apparently become such that even Urianger had mentioned the two were… evidently attached. It seemed he was right. 

(He’d also cautioned Y’shtola off from confronting them about it. Since he knew her, he had done so with the understanding that very well she would listen to but not necessarily follow his advice.)

All in all, it felt like an appropriate time to broach what had been on her -- and others'-- minds. 

The two miqo’te stared at each other in a silence that Y’shtola happily let drag out. It wasn’t as if she actually had to _stare down_ his expression (and in fact, as he didn’t plan to move, neither did she bother ‘seeing’ his aetherial signature). Cahsi had been in the room with her own observations about the ward’s effects on her day-to-day life (of which there had only been a week), but she’d stepped out to find Ryne after she’d realized her report alone definitely wouldn’t tell the whole story. That left just the two of them, as the others who helped with crafting the wards had taken a mid-day break.

In the end, G’raha broke first.

One of his ears flicked as if waving off an irritant as he prompted, a little cautiously, “... But?”

Respecting him enough to not dress up her concerns, she said, “Three Paragons not only plotted world-ending destruction, but nearly succeeded. Had they been twenty-eight in number, I imagine they would have reaped their intended reward by sunset of the first day.”

G’raha bristled, insofar as he ever did. That meant he held the whole of himself very still, such that the lack of all the small noises which accompanied fidgeting was conspicuous in the air between them. 

He asked, “Do you mean to go back on our side of the deal?”

“If I recall correctly, t’was you that made the deal,” she replied evenly, “and quite readily, at that.”

“The ones aboard the Olimbos are nothing like the Ascians we knew--”

“So I’ve been told, and so those who hear the sorry story of their state generally believe. My worry is less that they might behave as Ascians, and more that they will behave as an immortal.” She drew in a slow, measured breath, then let it out. “Please don’t misunderstand me, G’raha. I want to believe that this is the right choice. To be sure, it’s the kind one.”

“You worry that they will attempt to collect on us for the suffering Hydaelyn and her creators brought to them.”

“And, knowing full well how long it takes an immortal to forgive an injustice, I wouldn’t entirely blame them if they did.” She shrugged, unapologetically truthful. “But neither would I invite them into my house so that they might better set it ablaze.”

“It’s a tad late to retract our intent, isn’t it?” Thinking likely of their benefactor, she knew from how he paused and his voice swung away from her that he likely was casting a pointed look to the baskets upon the table, and the sprouts sunning at the window. “Lest you’d like to inspire an immortal that is assured to act as an Ascian to rejoin the twenty-eight others and, perhaps, take point in those possible plottings to seize a new world of their own. No longer for the purpose of a great Rejoining, but in assurance that mortals may never again meddle or bloody their affairs.”

“You believe he would?” Y’shtola asked, lightly.

“I believe it likely, yes. If not in our lifetime, then soon after.” A beat. Then, stumbling slightly over himself to explain, G’raha continued hastily, “Not because he’s-- biding his time or looking for excuses to return to that path-- I believe it to currently be the exact opposite, actually! It’s just that there would be few alternatives. Not as long as he knew there was a kinder path, and we took steps to block it.”

“Would you live to see that possible future, past our natural lifetime?”

“As it currently stands, I would.”

“Then he would have to leave you behind.”

Tensing slightly, G’raha said, “Yes, he would. For multiple reasons.”

Folding her arms, her tail swished behind her with idle disbelief. She wasn’t entirely convinced he _would_ \-- that either of them would, if they were decades down the line and the next generation, an unknown, on the rise. 

More importantly, however, she wanted to know, “Without complaint? To stand alone on the other side, defending those you haven’t even met?”

“Hard to meet them if they are born only to die,” he pointed out with a small, _let’s lighten this conversation, please_ smile. “In any case, I’d hate to disappoint those that did the same before me.”

What he actually meant was: it was what the Warrior of Light would’ve done, so he’d do it, too.

… Hm.

After a moment for close scrutiny, she matched his small smile with one of her own. He relaxed, just a bit.

She then said, “While I don’t intend to let that worst-case scenario happen so quickly, I imagine it will come up one day for you and he. For all the changes he’s made -- and let me say, I hadn’t expected him to manage any significant change in his opinion toward _us_ , but it’s clear he has -- Emet-Selch’s ultimate values can hardly be called in line with ours.”

“They aren’t as far off as you would think,” G’raha replied, then took a short, sharp pause. She let him take that time, and kept still. Finally something in him must have clicked, as he verbally squared his shoulders, took a deep breath to metaphorically puff out his chest, and said, resolute, “I’m not his keeper, but we do, at present, try to act together. That is to say, we are together. It is a serious attempt on both our parts, or so I believe. … Rather, ah--”

Taking some pity on how quickly he dropped from professional to flustered, Y’shtola gently interrupted with, “I understand,” and gave him another kindly grin. “I can’t say I’m wholly surprised.”

“-- Truly?” His floundering snapped into exasperated indignation. “I mean, _truly?_ You haven’t been the only one to say that!”

“It does explain his rapid changing for the better,” she said, “which he might have done anyway, but outside motivation certainly helped. It also isn’t too surprising considering how much time you two spend together, and your terrible attempts to downplay how happy you are when he’s around... _And_ not to mention your constant chasing after one another, which was enough that I was beginning to think of you as the de facto contact point for him--”

“You make us sound like lovesick youth!”

“Relative to one another, you are the lovesick youth,” she pointed out, a bit more amused than she probably deserved to be, “while he might as well be a cradle-robber.” 

Sputtering, G’raha took a hasty step back. By the rustling of cloth, his hands had flown up to help him wave away that fun little sentiment. “Now, hold on a moment! That’s not-- I don’t think that’s how it works!”

“I don’t know what to tell you. The numbers don’t lie.” She let him stutter and stress for a few excuses more, then cut back in. “When are you planning on telling everyone else of your affair? Not that you owe it to us, but it is a peculiar situation. Emet-Selch isn’t the average moonlight visitor, and I don’t imagine you’re exactly suited to keeping something like this in the dark forever, either.”

Thancred was going to be _pissed._

… Probably. He’d been coming around on Emet-Selch. That he’d reportedly saved the other Scions from certain death-by-asphyxiation and brought them back home instead of staying with his own kith and kin had absolutely won him a few points, on top of the goodwill he’d already gained from saving Urianger from a broken neck in the Burn. Y’shtola didn’t know if this development would set him forward or push him back. If he had been any less stubborn about his wariness toward the Ascian or his faith in the Exarch, he’d surely have noticed the signs like she did.

(In truth, she didn’t know exactly how she felt about it, either. She needed time to think it through, now that her suspicions had been confirmed.)

Pretending he didn’t want to know what she meant by that when he clearly did, G’raha cleared his throat and -- she guessed, based on what she knew of his evasive tactics -- carefully glanced away from her, instead looking toward the shut door. “I… haven’t decided. Some time soon would be best, you’re right.”

“Before we’ve finished weaving these twenty-eight pendants,” she said, “as more than a few questions need to be answered regarding your bias in this entire business. I trust that you understand that.”

That was just being smart.

Unfortunately for G’raha, immortals didn’t change _that_ fast.

(And given how G’raha’s immediate impulse had apparently been to hide the relationship, even though it would’ve been much better to discuss it before over two dozen more Unsundered souls were poised to re-enter their world, well-- he hadn’t changed that much, either.)

Another little pause. By his contrite tone of voice, she could just imagine that his shoulders had drooped a half-ilm, his eyes dropped to the floor. “I do.”

“Fantastic.” 

She meant that, too, though it maybe came off as a tad sardonic. It was just-- if it hadn’t been for Emet-Selch and his ilk (and G’raha’s own misguided spellwork, but he’d made his amends for that), they wouldn’t have been stuck on the First for as long as they had, withering away without their bodies-- _Right._ Yes. She would need to take the time to learn her stance on G’raha’s frolicking around with the Ascian, indeed. 

Perhaps feeling her displeasure begin to rise, G’raha began shuffling for the door.

He said, haltingly, “I… believe I must needs check if Krile has anything for me to do before I retire to the Tower--”

“Actually,” she cut in, because she didn’t _really_ want him to leave her on that note, because-- well, at this point he was one of theirs, and she needed to work on making sure he knew that. Even if he made ridiculous decisions that he thought was in their best interest, without actually asking them whether they agreed that it was. At her word, he stopped his running away, and instead glanced cautiously back at her over his shoulder. She grabbed his eye and his attention, asking honestly, “If you might spare a moment before then, would you give me a hand with these crystals? They need to be properly attuned. The spells take enough time and energy that I’m sure we’ll have a decision worked out between _all of us_ about who they go to before they’re actually done.”

“Oh.” He blinked at her. Realizing she was sincerely asking, confidence tentatively trickled back into his tone, draining a little of the guilt from his words. “Certainly. I’d be happy to.”

She beckoned him over, then pointed out the relevant diction that he’d need to follow for the task. _Yes,_ there was indeed much to figure out. At least for the imminent future, they had a period of peace within which to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next and finally is the epilogue. <3 thank you for reading this far, friends!
> 
> find me @ [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter. if you're wondering how Urianger and Thancred got on in welcoming each other back, [here is a ficlet just for that](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27212737/chapters/66472687). :] also keep an eye on that series if you're interested in more Theoxenia-related short stories!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning:** there be smut in these here words. no specific warnings this time!
> 
> \-- eh, the epilogue?! well, well, well. time for a/n exposition.
> 
> honestly, it's crazy to think this story grew as much as it did. to think I'd been so sure I'd never write anything longer than 100k!
> 
> thank you forever to Jackaloping for giving me the "what if time travel? only make it exselch ;)" prompt during one late night, and then all the brainstorming help to follow (such as, "ok but imagine... top g'raha, he needs something in his life he can control, c'mon it writes itself" and "think of the soul/mind shenanigans!!").
> 
> not to get too #sappy on main, but ffxiv, this fic, and its characters saw me through the insanity of 2020, which included not only the global events, but also local protests [acab? acab], graduation from grad school, an intense and uncertain licensing exam, an unexpected cross-country move done in two weeks, and transitioning to a dream but very demanding job. sitting down to write and see what nonsense these characters got up to was a great respite from all that real life nonsense. I hope the story to result brought some of the same happiness to its readers!

“How fares Elidibus?”

“As well as expected. It’s funny, though; I don’t recall telling you of my destination.”

“When certain people have a bounce in their step, there are only so many possibilities as to the cause.” Atop the Tower on a crystalline roof smudged with soot, G’raha stood over a large stone pot filled with dark, densely packed dirt. At a glance, it looked like he was trying to figure out where he wanted the pot to go. Giving the pot a _what am I going to do with you_ expression, he turned his attention over his shoulder toward Hades, who moved closer from his original arrival spot by the empty throne. “Besides that, you clearly came from the Rift.”

“To know that, your aetherial detection sharpens by the day.”

“As does my understanding of the context clues presented before me.” He gave Hades a small smile as he stopped by his elbow. “Well? How was he?”

“He ventures ever closer and closer to at last acting upon his decision to join us -- for a very short, controlled measure of time, or so he has repeatedly impressed upon me -- and set foot again upon the Source.”

“A decision that large would take time for anyone,” noted the ever diplomatic Exarch.“With what you’ve said of his personality in particular, I imagine he is currently poor company for conversation.”

“Ever have I marveled at his ability to not snap his own spine in twine, so tense and straight does he string it.” But Hades did not want to discuss Elidibus or his conversation aboard the Olimbos. Concern for their people’s future had been the focal point of the visit. Though their resulting plans resembled nothing like what a discussion between two plotting Paragons once yielded, it nonetheless felt akin to private matters better kept away from prying, unmasked eyes. Additionally, considering the inner turmoil Elidibus and the tiny colony of survivors inspired (especially through their insistence to title him Emet-Selch despite his voluntary vacancy from the post for a few dozen millenia _on top of_ his current outright desertion), Hades could truthfully say, “I tire myself merely speaking with him, never mind about him. What triviality have you distracted yourself with on this day?”

“Cahsi brought it back from the First for me. It’s a gift from the Crystarium generally, and Lyna specifically.” Not a triviality, then, as far as G’raha was concerned. “She wrote a letter explaining it was for my garden,” a small wince, contrite, “which I’ve been meaning to tell her of its unfortunate destruction, but obviously, hadn’t gotten around to. Now I despair to bring it up lest she think I intentionally kept her under-informed, or that she erred in her gift... In any case! That is neither here nor there; I’ve a full moon’s turn before Cahsi expects to venture again to the First. In the meantime, you may find the gift of interest as well.”

No matter how he scrutinized the pot, he could see nothing remarkable about it. 

“All I see is fresh, if common, dirt. You will have to tell me why that might be so interesting.”

“Beneath the dirt lays a seed of a tree long unknown to the botanists on the First. The tree appeared after the Flood, while the seed is the second its progenitor has ever dropped. The first has a matching home in the Crystarium’s underground garden.” G’raha’s tail flicked with happy curiousity. “Should it grow, I have promised to report promptly and precisely what it makes of itself here.”

A mystery to be learned.

Everyone needed a mystery in their life, especially would-be immortals.

“It may take some time to grow,” G’raha rambled on. “It may take a decade to sprout! We’ve no idea what to expect. I do hope the Tower’s influence will not affect it unduly, but I’ve decided to keep it alone up here until I can be sure. Were it in need of company to grow comfortably, however, that would pose a problem.”

Most plants didn’t require _company._ Those that did oft equipped themselves with the ability to make their own.

Aloud, Hades hummed noncommittally. He undid the metal clasp of his warded charm, pocketing the necklace now that he was back under the Tower’s protection.

Heedless of his (somewhat) disinterested conversational partner, G’raha continued, “Its parent did not require much encouragement to prosper, apparently, yet I can’t help worrying that this _may_ be a case where the acorn falls far from the tree, both metaphorically and literally, thus leaving me in a bit of a lurch...”

Hades tuned out, mind revisiting the other’s earlier comment. _A decade for a seed to sprout,_ he’d said.

No time at all for Hades. More than a tenth of the average miqo’te’s lifespan.

Minding the flow of time exhausted Hades. Long had it been since he’d found mortals deserving enough to keep track of. In part because of their twisted, malformed natures, yes, but also because things like days and weeks and months flowed endlessly forward, and he was quite happy to drift along with them. 

Traditionally, his projects were rarely time-sensitive. They hardly built Calamities in a day.

... Calamities? No. Rejoinings. 

Well. 

Both.

In any case.

Now every project felt exceedingly time-sensitive. He knew off his cuff that three months had passed on the Source since the Scions had made sense of Eris’ and Hythlodaeus’ remarkable gift. For Hades, who discovered the best warding ingredients bloomed on the Fifth and Seventh Shards and subsequently traveled frequently between those two and the Source, it had been a year and some. Once he had gathered and delivered all ingredients necessary for twenty-nine individual wards, he’d turned to his specialized linkpearl and at last sent word to Elidibus about the possibility that he and the other Unsundered might safely venture out of their glamorous, gilded cage.

Elidibus hadn’t taken his wording too well.

Or maybe it was that he’d taken so long to reach out again after leaving quite suddenly. 

_Or,_ most likely, Elidibus disliked that Hades continued to support the _health and work of the Sundered._

That image of himself had been worth a laugh. 

Though he suspected the Scions wouldn’t think it as funny, the lively shade he called Hythlodaeus had seen the humor in it. Hades had been pleased enough to hear Hythlodaeus’ genuine laugh that he finished crafting the river near Hythlodaeus’ apartment, and thereafter added a few preparatory decorations along its banks for the Olethros festival. As he did, he recalled how gorgeous the river looked with the lights and sun and cheer...

Before he could get too wrapped up in remaking the festival day, however, Hades split two bottles of wine with Hythlodaeus to celebrate the _present day_ events, incomplete in success though they were. Then Hades had discovered that while he’d fashioned Hythlodaeus such that he could consume drinks, he could not get drunk. Upon that realization, bitter disgust at his lackluster Creations and himself blinded him, and his tight control on his magics began to slip. Hythlodaeus began to resemble Lahabrea, though his hair had been cut short and turned white while a damning tattoo crawled up his neck, and thereafter became so consumed by fire as to be ash.

Unwilling to spend another second by that horrid amalgamation of poor decisions, he’d magicked himself sober and went to spend a better night with G’raha. 

Mood thus improved, he’d found the energy to return one of Elidibus’ four missed calls. Strange as it had been to limit their communications to a measly linkpearl, it provided them both the space to (re)acquaint themselves with one another. What Emet-Selch discovered about this Elidibus was that, for a being who derided dealing with the Sundered, he positively despaired at missing any updates on the current happenings upon the Stars. 

That wasn’t actually too different from the old Elidibus. 

The new Elidibus fortunately trusted the legend of an Emet-Selch who paid the ultimate price to halt the Doom just enough that he was willing to consider that maybe, just maybe, _this time_ , with Emet-Selch at the helm of this plan, there could be real hope for a change. After what amounted to three years for him and his, he set up a rendezvous point at the Dark edges of the Thirteenth’s Void to meet and lead Hades back onto the Olimbos so that he might better explain what the wards entailed. There he noted that Hades’ sigil had been originally become known to help locate him. Once the murder had stuck and after the Sundering, however, it became the touchstone as a cautionary tale against living among mortals. 

_Perhaps it might venture farther yet from its original meaning,_ Elidibus said at the end of his lengthsome philosophizing, _such as to reverse itself into a glad-tiding regarding the Sundered._

 _It would find use there, at least,_ Hades replied, _considering I have always known where I am._

Though his expression did not change and he kept his emotions at a polite distance (something his fellows aboard the Olimbos could learn a thing or two about!), Elidibus smiled.

Somewhat surprised at his spot of good humor, Hades fell quiet.

Reacquainting himself with Elidibus would be… interesting. 

Elidibus said, _I will test these wards myself in the near future. That you have walked within Hydaelyn’s Light without them is promising for our purposes._

According to Elidibus’ meticulously detailed timeline for the excursion, the near future meant half a year for those on the Source.

Strange though it was to think, the Source presented a myriad of unknowns for Elidibus and the others. A great majority of Hades’ assigned tasks were to select places for Elidibus to educate himself about what world the Unsundered were returning to.

A half year was not enough time to make the appropriate selections. Drafting Raha and the Scions’ counsel would be somewhat helpful in that regard.

Yet, even with a task like that awaiting him...

The half a year until Elidibus walked beside him again would _crawl._

He had ways to pass the time, at least.

“... retrieved the dirt from the woods around Hawthorne Hut, where Cahsi, Alphinaud, and Ardbert were caught ‘twixt negotiations with the Ixali regarding that ancient navigation system.” G’raha was saying when Hades refocused on him, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “Cid and Nero hoped to integrate it into the ship as part of their ongoing attempts to make it operational for Sundered souls. Y’shtola and Urianger have agreed to look into a specialized crystal for that purpose, and invited me along to help. That won’t be until the day after the morrow, though.”

Knowing exactly what pot he stirred by asking, Hades murmured, “Y’shtola, really. I had thought she still needed time to think about your fraternization with me.”

G’raha’s ear tip flicked with vague annoyance. He averted his eyes back to his common dirt and uncommon seed. “She has her heart in the right place. I shan’t assume to know what she thinks, but I do believe-- at least, I hope-- that she’s coming around.”

“And until she does in full, Urianger has made clear that he will provide interference on your behalf.” He gave G’raha a winning smile. G’raha did not appreciate it. “Might they require another crystal expert on their team? I originally designed this Tower, you know.”

“If only you would allow me to forget,” he groused, without heat. “Your original design ultimately failed under the strain of too much energy from Dalamud--”

“An intentional failure is, to most, a success.”

“-- And, as our lack of transparency wounded her far more than our _dalliances_ , I aim to clear the air. That is considerably more difficult with you at our backs, skulking and smirking in the shadows.”

“As far as she is concerned, it was not I that hid behind robe and hood,” Hades said, somewhat affronted. As to his so-called skulking and smirking, it was not his fault they were competent enough to not need his help beyond the occasional hint! His presence and restraint from rendering aid should have been taken as a compliment.

“As far as _we_ are concerned, we both donned quite the mask,” G’raha sighed, setting his hands upon his hips, “or so she has told me in not so many words. Anyway, I know you have no true desire to join us on our venture. It will take us to the frozen Falcon’s Nest, and from there, far from anything resembling civilization.”

“You will travel to the cold and the desolate, then?” G’raha nodded. Hades mimed a shiver, crossing his arms and squeezing his elbows. G’raha rolled his eyes when he spoke through clattering teeth, which he could privately admit had been a little far, “Oh, no. However will I recover from this fantastic missed opportunity?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps in watching my plant for me, you will again find some semblance of peace.” 

Hades dropped his dying-in-Falcon’s-Nest act and physically pulled back. “Do I look like a gardener to you? It’s a seed; it will go nowhere. You’ve all the tools at your disposal to set up an automated watering system without my help.”

“An automated watering system is a fantastic idea. Another project to keep you busy in my absence.” G’raha replied, insufferable brat that he was. Then, a touch more sincerely, “Your knowledge may dispel for you the mystery that surrounds this seed for me. I ask you refrain from sharing that knowledge with me just yet, as it is my hope that its growth will capture my interest as much and for as long as the Pappus Tree has for you.”

A good mystery lasted a millenium. He wouldn’t be too optimistic of a seed which hadn’t even sprouted to manage it, but then, that was why this was G’raha’s project, not his. Rather, it made him wonder how well a clipping from the Pappus would grow under similar circumstances. No clipping had transferred well before, he thought, though he could not say with certainty when he had last tried. 

“The Tower will undoubtedly influence its growth,” he said. Even to his own ears, his voice meandered close to being _curious._ “Though I’m sure it is fine alone, if it does want for company, I may attempt to transfer a piece of that famed Pappus here.”

G’raha’s attention swung back to him. “-- Would you? I would certainly be interested to see what comes of both!”

The corner of Hades’ mouth twitched. “That would mean another visit to Azys Lla.”

“A visit in which company would not be terribly burdensome, I imagine?” he asked, studiously serious.

“Depending on the company,” he agreed with a careless _and who might I mean!_ shake of his head and shrug. As expected, the implication set Raha to beaming. “But it sounds like you have an adventure to take before then.”

“That is the day after the morrow!” He protested, tapping a finger impatiently as he turned more fully toward Hades. Delightfully, he tipped briefly onto his toes to make his point. “Have we not time for a day trip?” 

“Have we not time enough to wait?” Hades turned toward him, too, and prodded a single finger into his shoulder, tipping him backwards. His tail lashed as he swayed back forward. “Not time enough for you to learn patience, apparently.”

“Do not pretend patience is what stills your hand!” Knowingly, with a grin that reached his eyes, he swatted Hades’ hand away and said, “I am hardly the one lacking in such patience. Rather, I can’t help but notice that it has been _some time_ since your last visit...”

“A month or so?” Hades said, though he knew well the answer.

“Near two.” 

“My condolences for your loss, and how ill you’ve obviously failed for my absence. You must understand that time is such a fleeting thing.” 

Hades pretended to dust off the other’s shoulders, then settled one more permanently upon the warm join of neck and shoulder. 

“It certainly has done nothing to temper your-- what did you call it? Confidence?” G’raha took and guided his hand to cup at his jaw instead. Hades obliged, smoothing a thumb along his cheek. In reward, G’raha’s eyes lidded, and he tipped his head to Hades’ palm, pressing a feather-light kiss there. A little trick he’d taken up from Hades, or so he liked to (arrogantly) think. Certainly, he’d showered G’raha’s hands with enough similar gestures. Happily, rarer and rarer were the occasions G’raha averted his eyes from the adoration paid to his right arm’s living crystal. “Yet when your infrequent visits end most frequently with us tumbling into a bed, one begins to wonder whether that is the extent to which you seek to gain.”

“Is ‘a tumble’ all you would ascribe to what we do? I fear I owe you a better visit -- and especially a better night -- if so.”

“I would have us journey elsewhere, and take a tumble there.”

“Why leave behind a place well suited?”

“Because there are other places well suited,” he said, shifting Hades’ hand down to his hip and stepping closer, into his space, “and as we’ve both the means to venture comfortably from this place, I see not why we should limit our memories to this Tower.”

Because it was comfortably familiar. It was beautifully crafted. It was exquisitely powerful. Last but absolutely not least, it was G’raha’s home, and Hades enjoyed making himself at home within it.

But, Hades had no natural inclination toward wanderlust. G’raha clearly did.

So. Compromises. With a soft sigh, which G’raha wasn’t persuaded by, Hades tightened his fingers on G’raha’s hip. “Where would you have us go, then? -- Not Azys Lla. Considering your fascination, I’d rather more than a day to conduct any business there.” 

“That’s probably smart,” he admitted. “Have you ever been to Sharlayan?”

“Which location?”

“The one they yet reside in, as no imperial threat has given them cause to relocate.”

“Perhaps.” He couldn’t recall. Though he knew now that the vast majority of Scions hailed from its halls, it hadn’t been a place of much import. Academic centers often weren’t. Masterful though every generation of Sundered believed themselves to be, their greatest spells often amounted to little more than parlor tricks. As his opinion on such stage magicians alternated rapidly between charmed amusement and bitter disgust, he’d learned to limit his exposure to them. “I _had_ thought we might practice something. Sharlayan will do well.”

G’raha set his chin to Hades’ chest, glancing up. “Do well for what?”

“The most basic aspect to soul linking. Sharing memories. If we are compatible enough, we might consider making an enduring link, to ease -- not to be presumptuous, but I believe it a fair assumption -- our future connections.” He paused, allowing the other to process that. When no objections were immediately forthcoming, he added, “We were a little rushed before. I hoped to correct that experience.”

“Considering we both stand here today, I would have called it a success. At the least, there is nothing to correct.”

 _Well._ As everyone knew the key to true success was thorough and direct critique, Hades began to list his grievances with that particular joining (first and foremost his own instruction, which had been woefully incomplete). Even as he did, G’raha closed his eyes and buried his face into the fur lining of his heavy overcoat. Underneath was a rough approximation of traditional Amaurotine robes, though he’d added the unpressed pleats and delicate golden lining that he’d grown fond of. G’raha managed to wedge his nose directly into the plush red scarf that he’d also held onto.

By the third item on his list (choosing to discuss the matter around the others, as Cahsi continued to waggle her eyebrows in a most annoying way whenever she saw the two of them standing together), he cut himself off to ask, “Has the sound of my many failings put you to sleep? Simply incredible,” as he was, perhaps, a touch testy on being so easily disregarded when he was attempting to do the very thing G’raha accused him of never doing: self-reflection!

\-- That indignation fled immediately upon the first light brush against his awareness.

Another soul - one familiar in hue if not yet touch, exactly - reached for his. Scrabbled, more like, as a child surprised by the dark; but, with a bit of encouragement, with easy acceptance and careful guidance, the other’s sharp-edged determination gentled with warm relief. Hades brought close and cradled the feeling, using it to bridge and ease their sudden linking. By how Raha’s relief grew, his soul understood the need to _calm_ even if his mind did not.

“... Simply… incredible,” he repeated, with new, wondering emphasis.

Unconventional, more like, but it all was.

It was clear G’raha had focused so entirely on calling out with his soul that he processed not what his ears heard. Hades decided to pay him in kind, and devoted himself to his own inner eye.

He remembered keenly the first true look he took at a Sundered’s soul. It had been pathetic, shriveled and gnarled. A pale imitation capable of understanding very little regarding the world around it. He’d been so repulsed by what he’d seen, he’d thought it kinder to guide the twisted thing straight to the Underworld. The soul had disagreed, of course, and violently so-- which he’d found peculiar, but ultimately respected in most other souls, broken and malformed though they were.

A Sundered’s soul nine times rejoined was a far cry from that. It was no Ascian’s, but it took that first soul’s violence to _live_ , sophisticated it to pure determination, and thereafter demanded to be recognized as it was. It pretended decently at being whole, which made its flaws far more grating-- except here, with Raha’s, it was… 

It was joy at Hades’ safe return. Pleasure that Hades visited him first, as far as he knew; and, when Hades confirmed that suspicion, a thrill of self-satisfaction that Raha would never betray on the surface. It was a lurking shred of doubt as to Raha’s capabilities, and the ease with which Hades could soothe it. Not by compromising the other’s agency or dismissing its place, but by reminding him that he’d initiated this, and that was no simple feat for his kind.

Unlike when they were apart, Raha understood that to be a factual remark as much as old hurt. He accepted the first statement and did not fight the second.

It was basking in one another’s presence without particular strain, and remembering only belatedly what Hades had proposed at the start.

 _Take us to,_ and here he needed only prod at Raha’s surface thoughts to catch, _the Studium._

 _That is but one piece of Sharlayan,_ he learned, _and not whence I spent most of my time. That would be the Isle of Val._

 _I know the Isle of Val,_ he remarked, _and I wasn’t impressed by it._

A wave of indignation broke through their connection. Hades rode it out, letting Raha feel his amusement in response, and pushed again for the Studium. It had a library.

_A great library!_

Not the Gubal, but the newer one. Though their contents rarely moved him, even the most contemporary libraries had an atmosphere he could enjoy. The Studium’s had that, and more: grand, dark wooden tables beautifully carved, towering shelves filled with dusty tomes and scrolls, with a massive spiraling staircase that sat at its heart. At the base and to the side of that staircase was a hidden alcove with a low but sturdy reading table and two worn, plush armchairs before a carefully regulated and exclusively magic-based fireplace. Raha’s fondness bled through his memory of it, casting every book and dustmote with a warm, kindly sheen. 

Upon setting foot at the entrance to the quiet alcove in the far back, Hades realized the space had blended with a more recent memory of the Crystarium’s Cabinet of Curiousity. Differentiating the memories would require an interrogation he felt little need to pursue, especially after he spotted Raha tucked into one of the armchairs. Feet tucked under him and open book in lap, he looked exceedingly comfortable.

(By how the walls loomed higher than they should have and how the silent patrons milling beyond their alcove were a mix of Sundered races clad in long, dark robes with bright white masks, Raha’s memories hadn’t been the only one to bleed together.)

When Hades approached Raha’s armchair, he wondered a moment if he would be recognized, or if the other had lost himself in the sentiment of the moment. That had happened to the best -- that an attempt to share a memory became _exactly that_ , and both parties involved became silent, spectral spectators. That apparently was the principal form memories took for Cahsi and Ardbert’s shared Echo. 

That was an unfairly limited version of what the true powers could unlock, Hades thought.

Though it took him some time to draw his eyes from his text, Raha eventually did. Once his gaze met Hades’, he seemed to snap back into himself. Control over his form swiftly followed his realization. Soon he closed the text and set it aside, his eyes wandering instead all around the alcove, his soul drinking in the happy constructs of days long past but not yet forgotten. 

While he did, Hades took a seat in the other armchair. The edges of that enjoyment was more than enough. 

Once Raha had taken in his fill, his gaze landed again on Hades. With a good-humored grimace, he said, “Of all we could have delved into… I believe this is the point where you call me ‘predictable.’”

“I will do nothing of the sort,” Hades waved away the other’s embarrassment, potent as it threatened to become in a place so attuned to their emotions, “as I’d hoped you’d pick something like this.”

“Then we are both predictable academics.” With a low chuckle, Raha hopped up from his chair, and wobbled on numb-from-sitting legs to the fireplace, where he crouched to gaze into the fire. Something wriggled at the back of Hades’ mind about an important occurrence before a fire just like that one. 

While Raha indulged it, he held himself separate so as to better immerse himself in the turbulent rise-and-fall of Raha’s emotions over whatever he remembered. 

Whatever it was, it left him _restless._ Hungry, even. 

(To fill a loneliness; to soothe an old loss; to connect himself to the immediate present, to remind himself that he now could, and that those around him saw him as more than a means to an end.

Nearly all echoed as familiar fears.)

He drew himself back and rose to again face Hades. He did not seem aware that he had delved into the memory. That was fine. Expected, even. That he drew himself back without Hades’ guidance at all was promising.

Raha said, “I’ll admit, this isn’t what I originally had in mind for a journey beyond the Tower.”

“No?” Hades let his eyes drift shut. The library was a living thing around him, pulsing and shifting with their mirror memories of a place at once cozy and secluded. The armchair he sat on was made from the feelings attached to having sat in a thousand such armchairs. This was not a place to rush through-- unless, of course, you were someone who ever looked to the next horizon. “I could add an angry dragon or two if you must play knight to feel alive. Pick your choice of damsel, and I’ll be sure to play to that part well, too.”

“Hah. Gracious though it is for you to offer, and much as I’d like to see your attempts at distress, I’d really rather you didn’t.” Bare feet stepped slowly across old, plush carpet. “It isn’t what I expected, but it’s nice. It reminds me that, sometimes, it’s alright to take a break.”

Raha stopped before him. Hades cracked one eye open and found him looking down at him with a small, soft smile.

Around them, the fire’s warmth grew. The yellow of old books well-used and well-loved coated the alcove, Raha’s rise in devotion a solid, inescapable thing. How they were, there could be no mistake.

Leaning forward, Hades opened his other eye and reached out to take his right hand. Drawing it to his lips, he pressed a kiss to its knuckles. Thus accepted and returned, the devotion in the air between them thickened. The fire crackled across a thinning log. It was a muffled, far-off sound compared to the hitch in Raha’s breath. Finally, _finally_ , the attention to his crystalline limb did not make him flinch away.

Instead, he resolved himself to play the same game back, and leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead, just above his third eye. 

That was... peculiar. A wash of protective affection followed the gesture, which was patently absurd considering their differences in skill and--

“I’ve found that those who linger too long on differences suffer the greatest seclusion.” 

An idle comment, made while Raha promptly sat himself in Hades’ lap. For a moment, it was a tight fit as the armchair was very much not meant to hold two. Then, as if it had caught that very thought, the armchair perfectly accommodated Raha’s legs on either side of his hips as he sat comfortably on Hades’ thighs. For once, with how Hades slouched in his chair, he didn’t need to tilt his head back to look up at him.

“I find that those who speak about their subjects as if they aren’t directly before them to be the most bothersome,” Hades said. When Raha mimed a mocking, innocent-faced _oh? who might that be, your most eminent?_ , Hades cupped a hand to the back of his neck with a light grumble, and drew him in for a real kiss.

Between one kiss and the next, between a slip of tongue and nipped bottom lip, affection grew. And grew, and grew, as embers spilled across kindling. 

The library cleared itself of other patrons. The fire dimmed to a low burn, so as to keep them from overheating. The alcove may or may not have gained a door. If it did, it locked them away from prying eyes.

 _Intent_ played across his skin a half-breath before Raha’s fingers followed. He ran his hands up his arms and buried them in thick, dark locks. Pressing forward, he rose to his knees, tilting Hades’ head back to deepen their kiss-- then sank down, _restless,_ canting his hips forward before sliding back, then forward again, then to the side, then--

Gripping his hips to give some coordination to the squirming, Hades set a kinder, slower pace for the both of them. Pleased, Raha hummed low in his throat, breaking their kiss to nuzzle at his cheek. 

Then switching sides to nuzzle at his other, the hum growing into an outright purr. 

_Again_ with the scenting. It was--

Well, it wasn’t that bad, actually. Insofar as welcome-back gestures went.

It clearly meant more to Raha, anyway. Happy co-mingling, a soul brushing against another, determined to leave even the scantest mark-- ah, but when it came to ensuring they were on the same page of who belonged with who, they could do better than that. 

As if hearing his intent (and perhaps he did), Raha breathed, “How about--?” only to cut himself off and stop, his words drying in his throat before they could fall from his mouth. Ever so sensitive to his own wants, this miqo’te was.

As they were, there was little need for words. Desire rose fast and potent between them, a dozen ideas rolled into a single image, a sudden wish. One that had failed to be given voice. One that Hades would be happy to indulge.

“Truly?” 

He’d thought it obvious.

A puff of air against his jaw. Amusement. “I suppose it is.”

Yet for a moment longer, they kept their slow and steady grind. Basking; enjoying; building up heat, stoking the fire. No need to rush. In this place, they had all the time in the world.

Still. In matters of the heart, desire had its demands.

Raha’s teeth grazed his collarbone, then trailed up his neck. Impatient.

Message received. And though words continued to be unnecessary, on the rise of an inhale Hades bade, “Come here,” _let me see you, my dear._

Helpfully, their clothing was easier to remove than it would have been normally. If pressed, neither would be able to recall when exactly Raha lost his trousers and greatly loosened the bindings along the side of his shirt, or how Hades’ robe had gained its cut and part along the side to his front. These things were merely expected, and so their forms accommodated. Naturally, the convenience went underappreciated, as they became a little too distracted with one another. 

Attached as he was to his physical form, the joining manifested thus: Raha took in hand his desire and guided it to his entrance, raising to his knees and poised to drop with little hesitation. 

It was, actually, a little startling. A little.

Because little hesitation did not mean none, and here, a little quickly spiraled into a lot, and a spike of anxiety felt terrible when up-close-and-personal. “Slow down.” Hades said, and forced himself very still, because-- Raha’s drive affected him, too, and he knew what could be. _Still_ , “there is no need to rush.”

To which he was told, “So you’ve been saying,” his voice tight and expression almost pained, “but it’s what I want,” his long ears quivering. Around Hades’ shaft, his hand tightened. In the physical world, he’d eyed Hades with the trepidation of someone who hadn’t contemplated the full logistics of taking a cock and, once faced with the prospect, got caught up in marveling about sizes and how _that_ could fit _there_ and if all the associated work was even worth it, though the curious creature in him wanted to give it a try. He’d thought the reverse to be a fine test, but they hadn’t gotten around to that, and now, _here and now,_ he wanted the assurance of another holding _him_ up. The closeness, too; to be filled, it sounded nice, didn’t it?

\-- Oh, he was overthinking. Again. That was no good.

Hades agreed: it wasn’t.

To interrupt it, “Lean forward,” _and let go_ , because he was about one bad bout of nervousness away from ripping through Hades’ careful control.

Haltingly, Raha did. Mercifully, he relocated his arms to Hades’ shoulders, resting his elbows there and placing his chin onto the top of his head. Desire warred with that old, ingrained fear of vulnerability; the soul recognized what his mind did not, and balked from what was in store.

From a practical standpoint, the angle worked better. Their current world’s logic was such that when Hades placed one hand on Raha’s cock and another at his entrance, he found the latter to open easily for one finger, then two, as though he’d proactively covered his hand in the requisite oil. 

Convenient.

Better than that was the punched-out noise Raha made when he curled those fingers and began to work him open. He held himself excruciatingly still as Hades tightened his hold on the other’s cock _just so_ and timed the movements in tandem. Slowly, slowly, the nervousness faded; quickly, quite quickly, Raha broke his stillness and set again to shifting and squirming, his inhales sharp and exhales shivering. 

When he thumbed along the taut rim to his entrance, fitting in another finger to the first knuckle, Raha keened.

 _Ever so sensitive._

When Hades let go of his cock, Raha whined-- then hissed, startled, as he reached around to stroke along the very start of his tail and up the small of his spine. The hiss turned into a whimper, and from there the squirming became erratic shuddering, his hips jerking forward to rub himself against Hades’ clothed stomach.

Too much, _too much._ He wanted them to join, wanted their souls to have not a memory’s worth of separation.

Was it too much? Hades had judged four fingers to be a better gauge, but it wasn’t as if they were at actual risk for physical damage at the present moment. The implications for Raha choosing this sort of joining to signify their connection, however, meant without proper preparation, they might draw unintentionally sharp lines between their link and their divide--

 _Hades,_ growled into his ear, and his attention snapped back immediately on the utterance of his real name so close to his soul, _if you tease me for a moment more, I will --_

Around them, the alcove fizzled and faded. All that mattered remained, of course: the two of them, and the ever-comfortable armchair, ostensibly to provide Raha a point of familiar reference.

Ready, then. Withdrawing his three fingers, he lined himself up. 

Almost before he could get his hand out of the way, Raha sank down. 

Too fast. He whined and hissed again, his tail curled high and ears flat. Shoving his face into Hades’ sternum, his hips moved in little erratic jerks, his muscles jumping and tensing around Hades. He tilted his head up and gasped against Hades’ neck, panting warm breath against his skin in between hitching whimpers. 

For his part, Hades made a point to gentle himself how he could. He lightly caressed the other up and down his back, ducking his head to murmur low encouragement and praise into his ear.

He did not say exactly what was on his mind: that he was almost too tight, too heated, too _small_. A difference in physical and ethereal sizing. Compact, pulling and gripping at Hades almost like a vice— strong, in its own, consequential manner. 

Far more enticing was the flickering light of his soul. 

Spread open before him and ripe for plucking was a deep green struck through with crackling red. One that had survived countless rebirths since Amaurot’s fall, the other a mark of intentional heritage bestowed by some clever Allagan. Both _his_ , to be coveted for the current sum of its parts. 

Unrecognizable from its original, completed state -- so unrecognizable it hadn’t even been able to find itself when they had traveled back to Amaurot -- but who was to say Hades had ever met its original? Considering the possibility it had belonged to someone like Circe, it might have gained through its trials. If only it could have retained those lives, those experiences… Moving forward, Hades would ensure it did. After all, as it was and with who it was, it shined as bright as it could. In proud testament to the will of its holder, it practically gleamed. 

It suited Raha well. For all intents and purposes, it _was_ his.

His. Theirs.

So close to being… 

_His._

“Please, Hades,” panted against his ear, “don’t move,” _don’t move. Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move._

Don’t _take_ , he meant. Though he wanted to, oh, he very much wanted to. Were they to merge rather than merely link, Raha would experience the world as it was meant to be: _in whole_ , with all its brilliant color and substance. 

_Too much!_

With a bolt of startling clarity due entirely to the other’s self-perception, Hades understood then that the manifestation of a single, strong thread between their souls was all that could and should be expected. He saw how Raha’s soul strained to maintain its boundaries and its form, pressed close as it was to his own, and knew it to be true: at that moment, anything more _would_ be too much. The fire in the fireplace had been crafted to provide warmth, but not burn. Surrounded though it was by kindling -- books and scrolls, dry and brittle pages -- it had been carefully controlled. 

_One day, it may not be_. One day, a proper merging. But today…

A stable connection was already more than he had expected Raha to manage. He could appreciate the present for what it offered, he supposed. After all, it was-- Raha was, rather, in this very moment, his.

That was good. That was more than good, actually. The soul brushing along his, thus welcomed and so happily possessed, brightened in agreement, basking under his attention.

“I think,” Raha said aloud, his mouth parted, breath yet panting, “I’ve… adjusted.”

Hades petted at his sweat-soaked nape. While he would’ve made a face at the sensation in their physical bodies, here, it was indicative of the energy Hades’ soul put off within proximity.

“I told you not to rush,” he murmured.

“When it comes to judging what I can and can’t handle,” a pause as he sucked in a quick breath, his hips again shifting forward and jerking back, “I-- believe I am the best for that.” 

“Depending on the subject,” Hades allowed. 

A breathless laugh. “That you always must have the last word is, fortunately, more endearing than not.”

“You would call me charming, then?” Surprised by his own delight at that admission, Hades dropped his hand from the other’s nape to, again, the base of his tail. 

With an aborted _ah--_ , Raha rose from his seat when he rubbed a hard line from overheated skin to fur. It took him to Hades’ tip. Before he could suffer from the loss, he eased himself back down with a full-bodied shudder.

“When, and only when, you want to be,” he said.

Before Hades replied, he tensed his legs -- rose -- and, again, eased down. His toes curled, his body lengthening upward as if straining away from the intrusion -- or hoping to accommodate more of it.

The slow glide stole Hades’ last word from his head. Rather, it seemed not so important. More pressing was the joining between them: how Raha’s soul pulsed ever brighter, tying itself willingly to Hades’ own; how his in turn drew Raha’s closer, maintaining their boundaries so that they might better enjoy their connection because of what it was, two independents bridging a gap; and, how Raha moved against him, as if he belonged there, around him and with him, and in fact, maybe he did.

Tender until the end, no frenzy swept up their movements. Eventually Raha found the angle he most preferred, and took to it. He slanted his hips forward, knees digging into the memory of an armchair below them to give himself better leverage, and kept his body low as he ground against him. The whole of him curled into Hades, seeking friction and warmth and assurance of-- of- a whole host of things, most frivolous to cover the few sacred. 

In turn, Hades gathered him close. Wrapped his arms around him, ducked his head to the top of his hair. Whispered sweet nothings into his ear and praise into his soul, packed with his affection and something as close to devotion as a being like him could get for someone who was not his Lord. 

_You see me,_ Raha said without word (because he wished to _know_ , if he was to trust -- this was a two-way street, wasn’t it -- at least, he didn’t wish to mourn another missed opportunity without knowing the face of what he’d lost), _let me see you, too._

He tilted his head up and struggled past Hades’ grasp to look at his face. 

He yearned with a loneliness that was, in its own way, familiar. He wanted to know Hades in the ways he had never allowed himself to know those on the First. He wanted to rely on something more tangible than hope inspired by a Warrior’s tale, someone he could have and hold and hide nothing from.

There was his true form, but Raha wasn’t looking for that. He was looking for-- his true name, that marked him for who ( _and what_ ) he really was.

When he brought forth that sigil, Raha slowed himself enough that he might reach up and trace its edges. His touch felt like a line of static along Hades’ edges, shivery and light and full of wonderment. 

Not the usual response from a mortal. Even here, it seemed his sigil was to take on a new meaning.

Raha’s hands grasped the sides of his neck, holding him still as he completed his close inspection. 

He wished, _I would commit it to memory._

He cautioned, _That would take time._

That was fine. They had plenty of time.

In that moment, for both of them, it wasn’t as daunting a prospect as it long had been.

(All honest, as their closeness required.)

In the face of mutual veneration, intent quickened Raha’s movements. He tightened his own arms around Hades, ground down _hard_ \-- and came with an ancient’s true name on his lips, his sigil bright before his eyes. 

Even as he did, his soul demanded, _Don’t leave me_.

(So many had. Never before had he allowed himself to grow close enough to hold them back.)

Hades couldn’t. More importantly, he _wouldn’t._

Promise made, Hades fell over his own edge. He clutched at whatever part of Raha he could grasp. Held him close with pure need, _needing_ to feel him and fill him, take him and taint him, that his very soul might never again forget him.

 _I won’t forget,_ he was promised too, _not as long as I live,_ which had been longer than he’d ever imagined as was and threatened to continue into such a length as to shake his sundered soul apart.

Alone-- alone and _waiting_ \- he couldn’t do that again. It had been too much.

Hades would promise it wouldn’t, but promises were as nice as they were fickle.

And yet.

In this moment, _after this moment_ , to know and be known by one another -- that eased their loneliness. 

They could have _this_ , at least. It could be enough.

(All at once: the link took.)

Under the weight of a connection solidified, the constructed space dissolved.

Finding himself abruptly on legs unsteady, Raha immediately staggered and fell. He caught himself on one knee, his chest yet heaving and skin prickling with new sweat. 

Admittedly, Hades fared little better. Restraint had its own toll, while the impressions Raha left behind on his exit worked quickly to make their roots, pressing him down into their sincerity and their-- hope.

He took a careful seat on the edge of the new plant’s stone container. It supported his weight fine, and it wasn’t as if the seed within would mind. 

Keeping one eye on Raha for signs of discomfort (or worse), Hades turned the rest of his attention inward. The new thread running between their souls was a thin, delicate thing. Were it tangible, a breeze would have snapped it from its fastenings. Nonetheless, once upon a time -- once upon a similar attempt, five Rejoinings prior -- the Sundered’s soul would buckle and break under its weight.

Yet, as gold along a riverbed, this thread gleamed. 

It inspired a protectiveness in Hades. A need to cradle and spoil it, and the Sundered-but-steady soul it was attached to. With enough kind attention, it might grow into something strong. Ideally, it would last them some time and over some distance.

Until it broke, it bridged a gap Hades had forgotten he had. Faint though the connection was, the emotions which gripped Raha’s soul -- rapid, ever-changing, solidly in tune with his immediate surroundings -- thrummed across its line. Those, even more than the thread itself, Hades gathered close and buried deep within himself, so that they might not easily drift away. With how much and how strongly Raha’s feelings ran, he’d soon have quite the collection. One day, ere the memories frayed, he might find himself taken with the fancy to make something out of it. Long had it been since he’d made homage to anything besides his own; but then, linked as they were, Raha might as well have counted among that number.

(A comparison to a monster hoarding treasure would not be inaccurate. For all the times he’d been likened to such for a variety of causes, this one felt the most accurate.)

Around them, the world might as well have paused. 

Both metaphorically and literally. When Raha regained enough of his wits to look around, he did so with such honest bafflement that Hades _almost_ laughed. 

“... Would I be right,” Raha said slowly, “to say that hardly any time has passed?”

That didn’t need to be answered. He knew himself to be right. So went matters of the soul, and the beauty of the timeless.

Instead, Hades asked, “How do you feel?”

“Not as bad as I had before, and not as bad as I thought I would.” Swaying up to unsteady feet (which he then made steady, as he was his own brand of proud), Raha patted at his face and then inspected his hands. “The lack of tears is nice, I’ll admit.”

“For once.”

“It seems if I should feel different,” he said, “considering how the _union_ went, I imagined the separation to be unpleasant at the least--”

“We aren’t separated.” 

“-- We-- are- perhaps speaking to different meanings of the word?” Raha's stuttered gaze snapping toward him. “Certainly, we are not joined as we were. Else we would not be back where we began, solidly in our own bodies.”

“You would know if our connection broke.” Raha blinked in confusion at him. He elaborated, “Surprisingly, the link took.”

“What,” Raha started, then stopped. Alarm overtook his face.

Hades rolled his eyes, raising his hands with palms out to calm this ridiculous Exarch down, “Easy. It is little more than what I had mentioned before our journey. You may not be cognizant of it now, but your soul understood well the ramifications, and you were quite enthusiastic about it all. Anyway, we could intentionally sever it at any time with no lasting damage. If that’s what you’d prefer--”

“I’d have preferred to know about it in its entirety beforehand, I think!”

He kept himself still. If that was what Raha wished, so be it.

Still, he asked, because he certainly didn’t share the desire (so soon! How could he wish that so soon? It hadn’t been that bad! In fact, it’d been rather nice!), “Then, you do wish to sever it?”

“No!” Quickly. Honestly. Easing his own tension, Hades let himself slouch forward, elbows on his knees and one eyebrow quirked. Raha stumbled over his words again, then forcibly pulled himself together and, letting himself sit in a rather casual sprawl upon the rooftop, hands waving away the idea, “No. That isn’t what I meant. I was just, ah, surprised.”

Hades eyed him.

Feeling the vaguest pulse of truthfulness from Raha across their link -- and, beneath that, relief, that it _hadn’t_ broken, he admitted,“I do, perhaps, omit the occasional consequence to our actions.”

“A personality flaw we both wear with pride,” Raha sighed back, propping an elbow onto one of his legs and settling his chin into his hand, “unfortunately.”

That was true. Woe be to those that dealt with them.

Taking in Raha’s candidness, Hades thought him quite pleased, too. More self-assured. 

As he should be. He officially had an ancient’s soul at his beck and call.

He looked tired, too, but that was a temporary state for the both of them. Their souls were accommodating another’s presence, faint though it was. Until they grew used to it, their bodies would remind them that _something_ was off. It would do them well to remain within proximity to each other until that time passed, lest they strain the bond and end up even more fatigued.

It was just as well. He’d wanted to speak with Urianger about being the mortal contact point for Elidibus, anyway. If he recalled correctly, Urianger had met the original Elidibus long enough to know of his general stately attitude, but not long enough to hold it against the new Elidibus.

Ideally, anyway. From Urianger’s point of view, their original meeting probably hadn’t ended well. In acknowledgement of that unfortunate fact, Hades had resolved to speak in person to him about the matter.

Y’shtola wasn’t so bad, either. She defended her unbending sense of principle with a sharp tongue, which Hades tended to respect more than the alternative. It would be amusing to see how Raha planned to get back in her good graces, anyway, especially after they showed up with an aetherial link that she was bound to immediately perceive. 

\-- Oh, and if she felt the need to start a conversation about _that_ , he _definitely_ wanted to be there for Raha’s response.

As for Raha himself… Well. Even if he didn’t come around to Hades tagging along (and that was a big if, all considered!), then he’d offer his specialized skills toward whatever cause they’d picked up for their latest adventure. The pragmatic part of him would make him unlikely to turn that down.

Anyway.

That was for, as Raha continued to say, the day after the morrow. Thus, as far as linear time went, they had two days to enjoy each other’s company.

(See, all this time-counting? Tedious.)

So.

“Since we’ve lost no time at all,” Hades said, “do you still wish for a day trip?”

“Only if it’s somewhere quiet.” With an unspoken edge that he felt tired out. Unlikely though it was that he grasped the full reasoning, it made complete sense to Hades. His soul was laboring under a new connection. That was bound to exhaust the body and mind, no matter how well it handled the change. -- Unaware of Hades’ silent sympathy to his soul, Raha said, as if in jest, “How about Costa del Sol? Everyone knows that’s the best spot for a nap.”

A sandy beach in the sun with clear water stretching as far as the eye could see sounded perfect, actually. _Especially_ if he was soon going to be subjected to Falcon Nest’s dreary cold for who knew how long (not that Raha knew that yet).

Hades offered, “I know a similar place with far less people. Were you to grow bored of laying about, there has long been a pesky siren which took roost nearby and is in need of slaying.” 

Once he did, the beach would not be so secluded, but by then they might have worked on strengthening the bridges between Shards such that a thousand more beaches would become accessible to the both of them. 

Perhaps feeling his desire for such a place (though it seemed unlikely he’d recognize the signs of a link already, considering he hadn’t even been aware of it taking hold), Raha thought his proposal over, realized he hadn’t entirely been joking about wanting to lay around on a nice beach, and, smiling, agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 thank you so much for reading! if you want more soul-link shenanigans, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27212737/chapters/67470484) is 3.3k of emotionally explicit, tooth-rottingly sappy Emet/G'raha soul-stuff. 
> 
> once again, I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I enjoyed writing it. find me at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter for more ffxiv shenanigans to come :)
> 
> if you're interested in more Theoxenia, the next part of this series are all short stories set in this universe! honestly though, they're usually very smutty or outright pwps, lmao, bc u don't write 200+k of slow burn between the orneriest old men without getting a little frustrated urself. ;P I'll likely continue adding in-universe short stories as the fancy strikes, especially of the exselch variety, so keep an eye out!
> 
> cheers, all!! be kind to yourselves and each other, and take care out there!


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